An Uncommon Witness
by Mangaka-chan
Summary: Duck lived a quiet life until she witnessed a mob murder. Now caught up in a tale involving a persistent detective, a dangerous mobster, and a beautiful actress, will she ever return to her quiet life again? Or will the mob catch up to her first? An AU set in the the Roaring Twenties.
1. Chapter 1

This story started after I posted a 1920's AU fanart on the Princess Tutu LJ community. A lot of people liked the idea of the PT cast in a Jazz Age story so I decided to try my own hand at the idea. Some of the character names I use will be different from the official version (Ahiru vs Duck, for example) because it makes more sense to me to use the English name rather than the Japanese name in this setting. Also, I will be assigning ethnic identities to the characters to better reflect the historical setting (New York City, 1924) and to explain some of the more unusual names the characters have. As such, some references to racial prejudice may be made, but they will be done so in a purely historical context.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Princess Tutu_.

* * *

Chapter 1

It was a clear but chilly night as Duck walked her usual eight blocks back to her apartment from the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop where she worked. Under the pale street lights, motor cars cruised past her, the smoke from their tail pipes and the steam drifting up from manhole covers coated the street in a grayish mist.

Duck sniffled at the cold and shifted the brown paper bag in her arms. Inside were her week's worth of groceries, a load consisting of three apples, a loaf of bread, two heads of slightly wilted lettuce, and a can of sardines. She had been late to work again because the alarm clock was broken and Mr. Kotin, her employer, had chewed her out for being tardy. So, she had to work late to make up the hours in order to get her full paycheck and didn't get out until nearly 8 o' clock. After closing up shop she had rushed to the grocer down the street, and managed to buy her weekly grocery supply before the store closed. Of course, by now all the fresh vegetables have been sold and she was left with the wilted lettuce no one else wanted.

_Oh well,_ Duck thought to herself and looked inside the bag. _At least I was able to get bread this time. Good thing I asked Mrs. Ebine at the bakery to save a loaf for me, or else I would have to eat cereal for a week!_

Lost in her thoughts, Duck didn't notice the two women walking towards her and bumped right into them.

"Wah!" The unexpected impact caused Duck to let go of her bag, sending the contents clattering to the ground. "Ah, I'm sorry!" she said to the women before kneeling down and picking up the scattered grocery items.

"Geez, watch where you're walking, will you!" one of the women said as she brushed her arm, which Duck noticed as she glanced up, was clad in an expensive looking fur coat.

"I'm really sorry, I was just thinking about things, a-and I wasn't paying attention—!" Duck apologized again, not knowing what else to say to the well-dressed woman.

"Oh come on Annie, a little bump ain't gonna do anything to that coat of yours! Or are you looking for an excuse to get Danny to buy you another one?" The woman's friend let out a sharp little laugh. "You're scaring the poor girl! Why, her braid's as stiff as a Jack Russell's tail because of you!"

The friend with the expensive coat huffed as the two women continued on their way down the street, their chattering voices gradually dissolving into the noise of the city street. Duck's hand paused before she put the last of the vegetables back into the dented bag. Standing up she pulled her hat down over the short, red curls at the base of her neck, leaving only her long braid in plain view. That done, she inspected her bag again but noticed she was one apple short.

"Where did it go?" Duck looked around but saw no sign of the missing fruit.

To her right was an alley that dipped down at an incline. It was possible the apple had rolled down this way but the looming darkness in the alley made Duck hesitate. Her grandpa used to tell her stories about monsters that would eat children who wander into the night when she was little, and despite being 19 and an adult, the dark was still as imposing as it was when she was a child.

_One lost apple isn't such a big deal, right?_ She turned to walk away but the thought of wasting food (and thus her hard earned paycheck) pulled her back and toward the mouth of the alleyway. Maybe it didn't roll too far down, she told herself as her blue eyes scanned the trash littered ground. Unluckily for her, the bright gleam of the apple appeared midway down the narrow lane, resting against the bottom of a small pile of discarded wooden crates.

"Today just isn't my day," she muttered and sighed before taking a deep breath as she ventured into the dim alley.

Within a few steps she was beside the fruit and no monster jumped out at her from the dark. Feeling relieved, Duck smiled to herself as she bent down to pick up the apple, when suddenly, a loud bang sent her eyes shooting back up. A few yards in front of her a man burst out from a doorway and made a mad dash for the other end of the alley. He froze when a car pulled up and screeched to a halt and three men emerged from the vehicle.

Duck had no idea what was going on and stared at the scene, bewildered. But what she saw next sent a chill down her spine. Two of the men were dressed completely in black, the rims of their black hats shading their eyes. Each held a shot gun in one hand as they surrounded the petrified man who back his way into the wall. At the sight of the guns she ducked down behind the crates, dropping the bag once again, but this time she didn't even notice as her eyes were fixed on what was unfolding before her.

As Duck watched from behind the crates, her presence hidden by the boxes and the building's shadow, the third man walked forward from the car. Duck's eyes widened when she saw him. This man, unlike the others, was dressed all in white. A coat was draped over the shoulders of his finely cut suit and a cream colored scarf around his neck swayed as he leisurely walked up between the two men. It was his face though, that struck Duck the most. Curls of hair as pale as his coat framed a sweet, handsome face. In the dark she couldn't see the color of his eyes, but his expression noted a touch of detached amusement.

It wasn't until the man in white spoke that Duck snapped out of her trance and the situation she had found herself in came tumbling back over her. She almost gasped aloud but her hands covered her mouth in time to stifle the sound.

"You made a very unfortunate decision, Al." The man in white clasped his gloved hands in front of him and offered the frightened man a reprimanding smile. "A made-man like yourself, you should know what happens when bad decisions are made. The boss found out about you being a tattletale and this is his order," he said calmly, but the other man doesn't seem to have heard a word he said, instead he's gasping and crying, his hands hopelessly groping at the brick wall behind him, trying to push himself as far into it as he can.

"No please…please! Principe!* Don't kill me! I-I didn't…I didn't mean to—!"

"It doesn't matter, Alphonse. What's done is done. And really," the man in white unfolded his hands and patted the shoulders of the men next to him, "you should be thankful for this. The alternative would have been far less pleasant for you. At least like this, you won't feel a thing." With that, the man called Principe held up his hands and at the same time, the two men in black raised their guns.

Duck instinctively shrank away, covering her ears and shut her eyes as the deafening sound of shot gun fire filled her ears and the sound of an abruptly smothered scream disappeared behind the veil of bullets. She kept her hands over her ears but even after several long minutes the ringing would not stop. She did not dare open her eyes and look, her stomach twisting at the thought of what lies not far from her.

She had no idea how long she sat there like that, huddled in the corner with her legs to her chest. But as the ringing noise in her ear finally began to fade and her mind gradually woke to the sensation of the late autumn cold nipping at her finger tips, she vaguely recognized the sound of a car, followed by the slam of a car door being shut and hurried footsteps.

"Damn it! They got him!" a voice cursed from that end of the alley.

At the sound of the new voice Duck opened her eyes, her vision blurry from tears she didn't know she had shed. She must've made a sound then because the voice snapped, "Who's there!" followed by the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.

Duck's heart felt like it was going to jump out of her throat as panic flooded her mind. _Oh my god, what am I going to do!? _ But before she could get beyond that brief thought, the footsteps came to a stop and she looked up into a pair of sharp green eyes.

Duck could do little but blink, too shaken and surprised to do anything else. The person with the green eyes appeared surprised as well, but it was soon replaced with a rush of words. "Are you alright? Did you see what happened?"

"I—" Duck found she couldn't find her voice, didn't even know where she was for a second, so completely overwhelmed by what she had just experience. Instead she stared at the man, and noticed he was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a black or dark blue tie. Unruly locks of dark hair peeped out from under his fedora; the rest of his hair was tied into a pony tail that had slipped over his shoulder. Following the line of his arm down, only then did Duck realize the man had his hand on her shoulder.

Seeing her blank state, he shook her a little and repeated his questions impatiently, "Did you see what happened? Were you here the whole time?"

Those pointed questions snapped Duck back into reality as she recalled the man in the white suit, the people with the shot guns, the person who had run from the building only to be cornered, and what was—had—happened to him. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to visit those memories, so fresh and raw in her mind. But the man would not relent and he shook her again, harder this time.

"Hey, say something!"

At this gesture a flare of anger welled up in Duck. Who was this man who kept yelling at her? Couldn't he tell she was upset? Hoping answering him will get her some peace, she yelled back, "Yes, I did! I saw it, alright!" She gasped and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "I dropped an apple and it rolled into the alley. When I came to pick it up this man ran out from the building and then three men came up in a car. Two of them had guns and one of them was wearing all white and he told the man who came out that he had made a bad decision, that this-this was the boss' orders. The man begged him not to kill him and he called him prince-a-be or principle or something, I—"

But here the man with the green eyes suddenly jerked her forward and looked straight at her. "Did you say Principe?" His voice was quiet but Duck shrink from the sudden intensity she heard in those words. She nodded mutely as the sound of sirens swelled in the distance. The man in front of her frowned and muttered softly to himself, "It's that name again..."

"What name?" Duck asked, confused.

Shaking his head, the man grimaced before looking away, "Nothing. Come on," he pulled her up and Duck had to steady herself as she found her legs numb and unsteady. Behind the man, police cars lined the end of the alley where the three men's car had been parked. With his hand still on her shoulder, the dark haired man started to lead her towards the police cars.

"Where are you taking me?" Duck demanded, trying to pull away from the rudely insistent stranger but stopped when she saw the splatter of blackish-red against the wall of the building. She would've seen the gory sight had the man not walked around her and blocked her view just as her eyes were about to come to the foot of that wall.

With his hand on her elbow, he said without looking at her, "I need you to come with me."

_That much I can tell!_ "But to where?" Duck asked desperately.

"The precinct; you are the primary witness in a mob-related murder."

* * *

A/N: * Principe is Italian for "prince"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Duck found herself sitting in a small, ill-lit office in the 53rd precinct. After she had been brought to the police station she had been led to this room and was asked to wait here by a secretary who left a cup of black coffee with her.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clock on the wall paced steadily. Nearly an hour had passed, and there were only dredges left in the cup that sat on the desk in front of her. Duck slouched into the hard wooden chair, wondering if she was going to end up spending the night in this office. At that moment the door opened and the dark haired young man (a cop, Duck had realized only after he had put her inside a police car) walked in. He took off his hat and hanged it on a rack behind the door. Duck's eyes followed him as he walked around the desk and took a seat. Taking out a fountain pen from his suit pocket, he produced a lined notepad from a drawer in the desk and wrote something down on it before finally looking at her.

"Name?"

"Huh?" Duck started.

"What is your name?" he clarified, the nib of his pen hovering expectantly over the lined paper.

"It's Duck. Duck Stannus."

"What is your _real name_?" The young man tapped his pen against the table impatiently.

Duck sighed. "That _is_ my real name."

The man raised an eyebrow, and scribbled onto the thin block of paper. "If you say so." Then under his breath, muttered, "That's one hell of a weird name."

"Well I'm sorry if my grandpa had a rather queer sense of humor!" Duck glowered. The rudeness of this young officer was grating on her raw and tired nerves. She had never met a cop who was so utterly inconsiderate before. This was no way to treat a lady, even though she wasn't exactly a lady, but still! "And just who are _you_ anyway?"

The young officer met her gaze and had Duck been less angry she would've looked away from those sharp eyes that seemed to bore right through her. "My name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York Police Department. You can call me Detective Romeiras."

"I don't see why I should call someone so rude a 'detective' anything!" Duck snapped back.

Fakir rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly as he turned his focus back to the task at hand. "Fine; call me Fakir then if you want. What's your age, address, and occupation?"

"I'm 19. My apartment's number 512 on 1750 Lake Avenue and I work at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street."

"What do you do there?"

"We sell toe shoes—ballet shoes—that is. I help the customers fit their shoes and any odd jobs that need to be done around the shop."

Fakir noted what she said, then asked, "How did you end up at the crime scene?"

"I told you already. An apple I bought rolled down the alley after I dropped it."

"We need this for the official records so I'll need you to repeat your account in detail. Start from the beginning and tell me everything you remember up to arriving at the precinct."

"You know what I told you! Why do I have to repeat the same thing twice?" Duck yelled. She was growing increasingly frustrated talking to this detective who had the personality of an ice cube. Plus the thought of reliving those minutes huddled behind the crates in the dark made her throat tighten and her stomach queasy, making her even more averse to reliving the whole thing.

Fakir drew a long breath, his own patience wearing thin as well. "Look," he leaned forward and Duck realized how close she was sitting to the table for the first time. "We need to know everything you saw, because what your eyes witnessed tonight just might enable us to put a stop to one of the largest organized crime families in this city. Do you understand that?"

As he spoke Duck recognized the intensity she had seen in his eyes back in the alley. It had surprised her then as it did now and this time she had to look away. Despite his age, for he looked only a few years older than herself, his demeanor was serious and unyielding. Seeing her rebellious air quelled, Fakir sat back into his chair and lit a cigarette while Duck watched broodingly. Once it was lit, he turned his attention back to her and said unexpectedly, "The man who was killed tonight was an informant of ours in the Corvo family."

"The Corvo…family?" Duck echoed softly. He had said this was a mob related murder, Duck remembered. She hadn't really considered what that meant exactly until now and the implications made her shift uncomfortably in her chair.

Fakir inhaled deeply and breathed out a plume of gray smoke. "They have their fingers in all kinds of shady business, everything from fraud, to bootlegging, to racketeering. A jack-of-all-trades type you might say, and deadly as hell to boot. We suspect at least half of the murders that occurred in this area within the past six months are linked to them but don't have much in the way of solid evidence to prove it. They're a very careful and low-key bunch, and few people have heard about them compared to the more publicized rackets. We've only been able to ID a small handful of their top members, and all of their associates are tightlipped as hell.

"Then about a month ago we got a break when we busted a large bootlegging operation and nabbed one of the Corvo underlings. He agreed to give us information about the gang's organization and activities in exchange for leniency. We were hoping with the information from this fella we'd be able to build a case against the Corvos." Fakir tapped the cigarette against an ashtray, the shadow in the room darkening his eyes. "But the gang somehow learned he was being a snitch and now we're left with a literal dead end."

"Which is why we need your help, Miss Stannus," said a new voice.

Duck turned and saw a man wearing a long coat standing by the opened door. The man removed his hat, revealing graying hair and bushy eyebrows. "I am Captain Charon Sideros," he smiled gently toward her. "I was hoping to interview you myself, but some business delayed me." Charon turned to look at the young man who had stood up upon his entrance. "However it seems Detective Romeiras has gotten the jump on me," he said with only a faint air of reprimand.

Fakir said nothing but politely moved away from the desk, allowing the captain to take his place. Charon glanced at the notes jotted down by the young detective before speaking to Duck. "A murder conviction will deliver a severe blow to the mob as well as facilitate further investigation into their misdeeds. However against an organization as wary as the Corvos it will be very difficult to convince a jury without firsthand eyewitness account of a crime. That is why an eyewitness account is one of the most valuable pieces of evidence any police officer can ask for, and why your involvement in this investigation is key, Miss Stannus. I know recounting what you saw tonight will be unpleasant for you, but we truly need your help and cooperation in this."

Mollified by the captain's words and having a greater sense of what was at stake now, Duck rallied herself, and nodded. "Alright then. I'll start from the beginning."

For the next hour or so Charon conducted the interview, taking notes and asking Duck questions intermittently to clarify or expand certain points. Fakir stood to the side, leaning against a cabinet, only making noise to light a new cigarette when his old one was spent, and listened intently to every word that was uttered by both parties.

When it came to describing the suspects' appearance, Duck paused to think. "The men with guns were tall and broad-shouldered. They were both wearing black overcoats and I couldn't see their faces at all because of their hats. I had a better look at the third man though. He's shorter than the other men and wore a suit with a coat draped over his shoulders as well as a scarf and gloves, all in white. His hair was white too, and I remember thinking he was very handsome looking though I couldn't see what color his eyes were because it was so dark."

"Does he have any special features? Like a scar or anything?"

"No, like I said he was very nice looking."

"But do you remember what his face looks like?" Fakir interjected. "Just that he's handsome isn't going to help us identify him."

Duck shut her eyes and tried to concentrate, but try as she might she couldn't reconstruct his exact appearance. Instead all she could conjure in her mind was a pale figure, whose shaded face was framed by wispy white hair and the words she first heard him say, that of: _You made a very unfortunate decision_. The image sent an involuntary shutter down Duck's frame and when she opened her eyes and looked at the expectant expressions on Charon and Fakir's faces, she looked down at her hands in her lap.

"I…I don't remember what exactly he looked like," Duck admitted in a small voice.

Charon grimaced in disappointment, but Fakir wouldn't give up so easily. He walked to the edge of the desk, and practically looming over her, demanded, "You were there! You saw him! You must remember what he looked like! Isn't there anything else that you remember about him?"

Duck edged away from him, desperately trying to remember, but there wasn't anything else forthcoming in her mind. "No, I don't!" Duck shook her head in frustration. The more she forced herself the less she seemed to remember, but somehow his voice always ringed in her ears, she realized. Looking back up, she said, "I don't remember what he looks like exactly, but I remember his voice!" she paused and met Fakir's gaze. "It-I can't describe it, but whenever I think about him I can remember the sound of his voice. I think…I think if I see him again, and hear his voice, then I think I might be able to recognize him."

Fakir pulled back abruptly and turned away from her. The room was quiet again but there was a palpable sense of frustration emanating from the two officers. At last Charon said, "We don't have enough information to have a sketch of him made, I'm afraid. But if we ever come across someone that matches that description would you be willing to try and identify him?"

"Um, I could try…" Duck answered hesitantly.

"That's fine." Charon smiled reassuringly. "As long as you can identify him from a lineup and is willing to testify in court that such a person was the one you saw tonight it will be enough."

"Wait, what do you mean 'testify in court'?" Duck's blue eyes opened wide in surprise. "What does being a witness entail exactly?"

"In a case like this the judge will require you to take an oath and publicly identify the defendant in court. In addition you'll also have to answer any questions from the lawyers and the judge himself during the trial," Fakir explained.

An uneasy feeling grew in Duck's chest. "Publicly identifying the defendant" meant she would have to meet him face-to-face, didn't it? _You made a very unfortunate decision… _Those words kept echoing in her mind. What would he say to her should they ever meet again? She wondered. Would he repeat those words to her in a calm voice as guns were aimed towards her?

"Miss Stannus?"

Duck woke from her dark reveries at Charon's concerned voice. "Would you be willing to publicly testify against these men?" he asked her gently.

Duck hesitated. Her eyes drifted over to Fakir and saw his disapproving glare. Combined with the smoke from his cigarette it made him look like a dragon peering at her from the gloom. Duck cringed. "…I don't know," she admitted at last, not daring to look at him when she spoke.

Across from her, Charon nodded briefly. "I understand. We are still building our case against the Corvos and it will also take time to try and find the person you described to us today, so you have some time before you must decide. We do not have reason to believe they know of your role in this investigation, but it's best to be vigilant. If you notice any suspicious individuals or activities around you please report it to us right away. And do not talk to anyone, and I mean absolutely no one, about what you saw tonight. Word spreads easily and these people will surely be listening for talks of witnesses."

Duck acknowledged his concerns nervously but gravely. After a few more questions and finishing the necessary procedures, she was escorted home by another officer in an unmarked police car. Charon and Fakir remained in the office, discussing the case and the information on their hands.

"'Principe'. That's the name she said Alphonse uttered before he was killed," Charon mused, his chin resting on the back of his hands as he sat with arms propped up on the table

Fakir rubbed out the spent cigarette in the ashtray and said, "He mentioned that name the first time I spoke with him, said he was one of the young capos in the organization but with close personal ties to the boss. But even Al didn't know much beyond that."

"Alphonse was just a soldier, but he was still our best lead." Charon sighed deeply, his thick brows furrowed. "Now that he's gone we've lost our window on the Corvo family."

"That might be so, but we have an eyewitness. She might not be able to give us enough details for a composite sketch but if we start looking at known Corvo associates who potentially match the description she gave, and as well as put pressure on them for information about someone who fits that description, it might allow us to find him." Fakir picked up the notepad, holding it like a prize in his hand. "Then, as long as she's willing to testify we have a chance at nailing the man she saw tonight in court. And if this 'Prince' character is really as close to the boss as Al says, then we just might be able to climb the vine and link the crime to Domenico Corvo himself!"

Charon sighed again. "It isn't so straight forward, Fakir. That might be what they taught you in law school but it's not just a matter of collecting the evidence, presenting them in court, and expecting the judge to agree with you. I dare say even if we were able to identify 'Principe' and put him on trial Corvo's lawyers would dispute the witness' credibility, especially when Miss Stannus herself admits she can't recall his appearance exactly." The captain capped the pen that he had used during the interview and studied it in his hands before he continued. "We also have to be extra vigilant this time around. When we got Alphonse to talk we thought we had our break, but now he's six feet under. Miss Stannus won't be in any immediate danger, I don't think, but if they can figure out Alphonse's been snitching so soon after he talked to us, then it's conceivable that they will learn there is a witness to his murder before too long."

Fakir frowned, his enthusiasm dampened by his superior's words of caution. "What do you suggest? Should we request someone to keep an eye on her then?"

"No, I doubt the top brass will approve, seeing we are already stretched thin thanks to the rampant gang and bootlegging activity in this town. Having someone sit at her doorstep everyday while we build our case will be viewed as a waste of resources."

"What about the Marshals? It's their job to protect witnesses."

"We have no reason to believe she will be in any immediate danger. The federal government won't act unless her safety is clearly at risk."

"Then I'll keep an eye on her myself." Fakir slapped the notepad back down on the desk and walked to the door to retrieve his hat. Putting it on, he adjusted it before reaching for the doorknob. "As long as she doesn't notice it will be fine and I won't be stepping on anyone else's toes."

At this Charon shook his head and Fakir paused at the door at his voice. "And what if she does? I don't think that girl would appreciate you following her after your interview with her today. She might not be very bold but I can tell she's not the type to let others make her decisions for her."

"Yeah, well, this will be for her own good," Fakir answered flatly as he opened the door, letting the noise of the police station enter the room before shutting it out again when the door closed.

* * *

Miles away, in a mansion on Long Island, a young woman sat brushing her hair in front of a vanity. She was clad in a crimson silk kimono, her manicured hands moving with languid grace through the damp locks; the creamy marble and white tile of the room made her raven hair all the more striking against the red of her robe.

A knock from the door stopped the rhythmic motion of her hands as she looked up from her task. "What is it?" she inquired in a rich, cultured tone that matched her lush surrounding.

"Master Mytho has returned, miss," replied the butler.

With that the door to the bedroom opened and the young man dressed in white walked in. The young woman put her brush down and got up to greet him. Wrapping her slender arms around the man's neck, she kissed him on his cheek.

"Mytho, what took you so long tonight?"

"I'm sorry Rue, but Father had some business for me. It took a little longer than I thought to wrap it all up." He returned her smile and wrapped an arm around her waist.

The smile slipped from Rue's lips for a second but it quickly found itself back in place. She leaned into his arm and watched him through half open, coy eyes. "Daddy's been making you work too hard lately. I've barely seen you all week. We should take a vacation somewhere, to Marseille maybe, or to Rome. What do you say?"

"Don't you have an upcoming picture to shoot? I don't think your producer would be too pleased if you suddenly decide to elope with me to the South of France," Mytho joked as he removed his scarf and coat while Rue moved back to the vanity.

"Daddy has a lot of money invested in his studio; no one there will say a word about it," Rue shrugged as she picked up her brush again.

"Always relying on the dapper*, are we?" Mytho commented coolly as he undid his watch.

Rue's eyes narrowed but she continued brushing her hair. After a moment she felt Mytho grasp her shoulders and his breath on the exposed skin of her neck. The sensation of his fingers massaging her shoulders, electrifying even through the silk, sent a quiver of pleasure down her spine. "But it's fine that way. After all, there's no need for a princess to concern herself with trivial matters of her kingdom, hmm?"

"Yes, a princess…what more could a girl ask for but to be a princess?" Rue said, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.

Mytho leaned in and whispered by her ear, "To be _my_ princess, and I will be your one and only prince."

* * *

A/N: Duck and Fakir's last names are from Edris Stannus and Pedro Romeiras, both of whom are famous ballet dancers, while Charon's last name is Greek for "blacksmith".

A "dapper" is Jazz Age slang for a flapper's father.

All the legal jargon and minutia in this chapter were the result of my best efforts at getting a rough handle on the subject. Hopefully I didn't get anything flat out wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The sky was clear, birds were chirping, the streets bustled with life, but Duck saw none of this as she dragged herself to work. By the time she had gotten home last night it was nearly two a.m. and her broken alarm clock had woken her up an hour earlier than it was suppose to. Now grouchy and drowsy, Duck slowly made her way to work.

_It's all because of that stupid gumshoe, making me stay all night in that office!_ Duck grumbled mentally and failed at suppressing a yawn. Just the thought of the police raised her ire. But that inevitably lead her to thoughts about the murder she had witnessed. Looking around at the people around her, all of them going about their own business, completely oblivious to her experience, Duck suddenly felt extraordinarily lonely. Charon had warned her to keep what she saw a secret for her own best interest, but he did not warn her about the hollowness that gnawed at you from the inside that made you feel like you were the perpetrator of the crime rather than its witness.

Clutching her hand bag, Duck turned a corner onto C Street and the familiar sign of "Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop" engraved in florid cursive appeared in view. Next door to the pointe shoe shop, a figure stood waiting by the door of the "Stein Jewelry Store" and Duck's eyes lit up when she saw the person there. The red haired girl's usual good cheer overcame her gloomy mood as she quickened her pace and waved in greeting.

"Good morning, Miss Edel!"

Edel Stein, a thin, pale woman, smiled a wee smile at the young woman as she approached. "Good morning, Duck," Edel said in a serene but affectionate voice. When Duck came to a stop before her, Edel's painted brows raised slightly at the dark bags under the girl's usually sparkling eyes.

"Is something the matter?" The older woman asked in the same calm, even voice. "You do not look well."

"Oh, uh…I had a hard time falling asleep last night, and my alarm clock woke me up earlier than it should've," Duck said, mostly speaking the truth.

Edel studied Duck for a moment then smiled knowingly. "I see. Perhaps a cup of chamomile tea will help before you go to bed. It will help you sleep as well as relieve tension."

"Tension?" Duck laughed sheepishly, realizing Edel was onto her uneasiness. "Well I'm not really tense, just tired, but being tired can make you tense and jumpy, I guess. In any case, thanks for the advice Miss Edel!"

Edel smiled at Duck's babbling. "You're welcome, Duck." She looked into the jewelry store at the clock hanging on the wall. "Now, if you don't hurry you will be late for work again; it's nearly five to eight."

At this Duck's head shot up and her eyes followed Edel's to the clock, which confirmed the time. It seemed Duck's dour mood and sluggish pace this morning had caused her to take longer than usual to walk to work, even if she left the apartment early thanks to the alarm clock. Now she was late. Again.

"Oh no!" Duck wailed. "I'll see you later then, Miss Edel! Bye!"

Having said the quick farewell, Duck dashed into her workplace next door and without even looking to see who was around, yelled a hasty, "I'm sorry I'm late!"

Expecting a reprimand, instead Duck was assaulted by a cheerful, high pitched voice in her ears. "Oh Duck! Were you expecting Mr. Kotin to yell at you when you ran blindly into the shop? What if you had plowed into a customer? Then you'd get fired and end up destitute!"

"Lilie! Eh? Where's Mr. Kotin?" Duck looked around in surprise, not to what Lilie said, but by the absence of her employer. Her two coworkers, who were also her close friends, had been stocking the shelves until she came in. Now Lilie, a blonde who bore a sweet smile, had her arms wrapped around Duck's arm while they stood amidst pointe shoes, tissue paper, and boxes. Across from them Pique, a bright-eyed young woman who wore her hair in a tight bun, tilted her head to the back of the store.

"He's in the storage room," Pique answered, "checking the inventory." Then leaning in, she and Lilie grinned mischievously, "Because the person who was _supposed_ to do it was late again today."

Duck's eyes went wide. _That's right! I was supposed to do the inventory today!_ She clasped her hands to her cheek and groaned. "Ohh, I totally forgot!"

Pique shrugged. "Ah well, I wouldn't want to do inventory either; it's so stuffy in the backroom. Nobody would want to be in there if given a choice."

"But I'm not late on purpose, Pique! It's all because I couldn't get enough sleep last night!" Duck explained as she put away her coat, hat, and bag in the tall cabinet behind the front counter, and swung the door close with a loud "thump".

Pique crossed her arms and raised a corner of her lips appraisingly. "You do seem a little moody today," she commented. "I can even see some dark circles under your eyes. Was it because of what the boss said to you yesterday?"

"No, I'm used to him yelling at me for being late," Duck sighed at the admission.

"Is it because you had a fling?" Lilie piped up and brought both Duck and Pique's thoughts to a screeching halt. Dreamily, Lilie continued, "It's like in the novels! You met some dashingly handsome young officer but he's been called to duty, leaving you behind heartbroken!"

At this Duck was both flabbergasted and speechless. Thankfully Pique shook her head and said, "There isn't a war going on right now, Lilie. There aren't any 'dashing young officers' running around New York City, or at least, not many, that's for sure."

"Indeed!"

The sudden voice nearly made the three girls jump out of their stockings. Mr. Kotin, a lean man sporting a small mustache and wearing a green sweater, strolled into the room, holding an account book and pen in the hand behind his back. "Love is a sacred thing, Miss Lilie, not something to be taken lightly and played with as if a toy. So many of the young people these days do not understand that, or they no longer appreciate all that love is and can be, taking it for granted like the very air they breath." In a dramatic fashion, Mr. Kotin placed his free hand over his heart, and pronounced, "After all, it is love that brings a man and a woman together, and from there holy matrimony is born!"

Correctly thinking the power of his speech had stunned the girls into silence, he turned to them and cleared his throat. "However," he said in a less dramatic voice, "right now you young ladies should be working! Especially you, Miss Duck!"

Startled out of the daze induced by his earlier deluge of words, Duck bowed her head and apologized. "I'll make sure to come in on time tomorrow, sir! I'm so sorry!"

Mr. Kotin sighed and handed her the account book. "If it's because of that alarm clock again there's a clock smith on Russell Boulevard. He's been in business for thirty plus years and can fix anything made with gears and springs. Now, I have done half of the storage room so far, so I want you to finish the other half and do the display room. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir…" Duck answered weakly as her boss walked away to attend to other business. Thankful that she didn't get yelled at (too much) this time, Duck was grateful for some work to take her mind off of everything. But as she glanced out the shop window on her way to the backroom, her mood clouded over again when she saw someone she wished to never see again standing across the street.

It was the young detective from the night before. He stood leaning against a lamp post, an open newspaper in his hands, but Duck could tell from the tilt of his gaze he wasn't standing there to peruse the morning headlines. Duck wasn't sure what made her more furious at that moment, the fact that he made her late for work, or that he was spying on her while she was at work. Dropping the account book on the front desk, Duck marched out of the store and into the street. From there she walked into mid-morning traffic, skittering around honking automobiles and clunking street cars, and more than once had to stop abruptly to avoid getting ran over.

Meanwhile, Fakir had given up his pretense of reading the paper when he saw her step outside. When Duck set foot on his side of the street he remained where he stood and met her anger head on.

"Why are you here?" Duck demanded through clinched teeth.

Fakir shook the newspaper he held before folding it along its creases. "Reading the morning news, isn't it obvious?"

"And you just happened to be reading it _right across the street_ from where I work?" Duck's voice rose, making a few people turn their heads as they walked by.

Fakir tensed, and quickly scanned the area around them for eavesdroppers but found none. This girl really has no idea how much danger she's in when informants for the mob could be anywhere, he thought to himself. "I would advise you to keep your voice down, unless you want _them_ to find you," he said quietly. This reminder checked Duck's anger, but it did not stop her from glowering at him.

The detective tucked the folded newspaper under one arm and replied in an infuriatingly cool, dismissive voice, "As for your earlier question, this is a public street; it's not a crime to stand here and read." Leaning forward slightly, he said in a lowered voice, "And besides, if I'm not here nobody would be watching your back, and it's clear from the way you ran across the road and started making a scene that you can't do it yourself."

Duck pulled back and yelled, "I can take care of myself! I don't care if you think you're protecting me, I don't appreciate being stalked!"

The corner of Fakir's mouth flinched, evidently not liking Duck's choice of words, or her attitude. "It's for your own good," he repeated. "We don't want you to get yourself into trouble simply because no one was there keeping an eye on you."

"But of all people why does it have to be you?" Duck retorted. "There are plenty of cops in New York City, so why do _you_ have to be one to watch me?"

Fakir didn't flinch from Duck's rage and answered her matter-of-factly. "This is my case, so the responsibility to maintain your safety falls to me," he said. "But in case you're thinking about requesting a different guard, you're out of luck. The department can't spare anyone else for the task."

Duck felt like pulling at her hair in the face of his patronizing attitude. "Don't you have other things you need to do? Like work or something?"

"This is my work."

"Well I have my work to do too, and you are keeping me from that!"

"You were the one who crossed the street to come yell at me. I didn't make you do anything."

"Well that's because I _can't_ work knowing there's someone staring at me all the time!"

There was a pause in their verbal volley as Fakir considered this. "Fine. I will keep an eye on you on your way to and from work but not while you're at the store. However!" Fakir interjected sharply before Duck could say anything. "You swear you will not leave the store during the day by yourself. If you plan to travel anywhere outside of your work place you will inform me ahead of time."

Duck heaved a huge sigh, before she gasped, "Oh, all right then! Fine, have it your way! But if I see you during work, I'll-I'll...call the captain and tell him you're bothering me!" She threatened weakly, but that seemingly pale threat made Fakir shift a little and glance away, as if the thought of tattling to the captain bothered him just a little bit. Seizing on his momentary distraction from her, she continued, "Now if you'll please leave me alone, I'll be going back to work!" And with that, Duck turned around and left, but not before sticking her tongue out at him as a last jab.

Fakir scowled and watched her as she thread her way back through traffic before vanishing into the store. His green eyes carefully scanned the area, and when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, took his leave of the lookout with a "Humph!"

Inside the store, Pique and Lilie watched as Duck stomped back in, causing the bells on the door to clink loudly.

"So…who's he?" Pique ventured, her interest roused by the stranger and his relationship to Duck.

Duck grabbed the account book she had left behind and growled, "He's a prick, that's what he is!"

At this Lilie cooed, "Oh, so he's the source of Duck's depression I see!"

While Pique joined Lilie in a fit of girlish giggles, Duck decided to escape their further probing by retreating to the storage room. Despite the cramped space and stuffy air, Duck was thankful to be away from prying eyes and perked ears. But one thing still would not leave her mind: the shadowed image of the man she has seen the night before. _I wonder what color his eyes are…_Duck wondered to herself while her hands worked, scribbling down numbers and flipped a page in the thick account book. While she couldn't deny the thought of him frightened her still, she also felt a growing sense of fascination with that man.

_Prince…_Captain Sideros had explained that that was the meaning of the foreign word she had heard the victim utter. Despite the brutal crime this man had carried out, Duck could imagine him as a prince. Not perhaps one on a noble white steed like in fairytales, but the way he dressed, the way he carried himself…there was something refined about him.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Duck's reverie was broken only when Pique knocked on the storage room door. "Duck, are you going to have lunch with us? Lilie and I want to check out this new Italian café that opened last week. They even have gelatos there."

"But that's all the way on M Street. Is Mr. Kotin going to let you take such a long lunch break?"

"He went to a customer's place for an appointment. He just left and won't be back for at least an hour." Pique winked.

Duck considered her friend's offer but thought better of it. She had already lost the groceries she bought yesterday; she couldn't afford to squander the money she had left by eating out at a fancy cafe. "It's alright, thanks. I'll stay and watch the shop," she answered.

"Are you sure? I hear the waiters there are cute." Pique enticed, but the red haired girl grimaced.

"I'm going to be over my budget if I do. Maybe next time?"

Pique's shoulders drooped, genuinely disappointed. "Okay then. I'll see you in an hour!"

"See you in a bit!" Duck smiled as she followed her friend out of the storage room and waved them good bye.

* * *

On the other side of town, Rue walked past the hanging boughs of magenta bougainvillea framing the front gate of her mansion under the bright noon sun, and took a seat in the back of a black Chrysler. Dressed in a burgundy Chanel dress, her black hair carefully done and hidden underneath a bejeweled dark-purple cloche hat, Rue was the epitome of the fashionable young woman of her age. Taking out a compact from her purse, she quickly examined her make up before snapping it shut and looked up to the reflection of the uniformed chauffeur in the rear view mirror.

"I have a meeting at 1:30 at the Jefferson Building. You know where the place is?"

The driver nodded, "Yes, Miss Legnani."

Rue sat back against the plush leather seat, contemplating the sound of her stage name. She began using the name of Odile Legnani when she debuted in the film industry two years ago. "Rue" was not grand enough of a name for an actress, especially not an accomplished actress, which Rue had full intention of becoming. "Odile" was a far more appropriate name; it called to mind the image of the Black Swan: elegant, majestic, and strong, three qualities she emulated and exuded.

As the car was ready to pull out of the driveway a maid hurried up to the car and waved to the driver for him to stop. Rue rolled down her window and rather irritated by this last minute delay, demanded, "What is it?"

The timid maid stuttered, "M-Master Mytho called, miss. He said he won't be able to come by this evening, and that he's sorry he'll have to break off the engagement for tonight's party."

Rue's eyes narrowed. "Did he say why?"

"No, just that some business came up that he had to attend to."

"I see." Rue inhaled a deep breath. "Phone him back and tell him it will be fine. We can go to another party together some other time."

When the tinted window was rolled up again and the car on its way, Rue's mind lingered on her absent beau. She knew perfectly well what a "job" meant to Mytho and that the business he was called away on today most likely had to do with the aftermath of that hit from last night. She wondered who the victim was, but she mentally shook her head. No, that mattered little, and that was not what was bothering her. It was Mytho she was concerned about, and the repercussions of his profession haunted her.

As the daughter of Don Corvo, Rue was like a star: bright and beautiful but born and surrounded by darkness. As such, her family's business bothered her very little. She had met other henchmen of her father before, and had never been overly concerned about their fates. But with Mytho it was different. The fear that one day he would get caught nagged at her, and like the moon sways the rise and fall of the tides, the feeling rose and fell with each job he carried out. This time was no different, but besides concerns about the police, something about Mytho himself was worrying Rue. One reason she adored him was because he, unlike many of the other men she had dated, was sincere and honest. His smiles were true, his actions pure. But that was changing now. On the outside he was still as charming as he had always been, but his words were edgier, like a knife's edge that grows sharper the longer it's polished against a stone.

As the streets outside passed by like a never-ending parade of fleeting shapes and colors, Rue remembered the time of their first meeting. She was sixteen and was infatuated with dance. Before the motion pictures took off every little girl dreamed of being the prima donna in a ballet or opera. Rue was no different and had practiced classical ballet since girlhood. She had been going to a boarding school in Upstate New York for the last four years and had studied ballet there. Without notice her father sent word that she was to return to New York City. Rue had no choice but to quit the school, as it was unwise to challenge her father's order. Once back home she learned it was because some upheaval had occurred within the family and Don Corvo wanted his daughter close by, in case someone should attempt to harm her while she was away.

For weeks Rue spent her days cooped up inside the house, waiting for the tension within the family to die down. Finally unable to stand the boredom any longer, Rue had appealed to her father to let her practice ballet in a dance studio nearby, citing that her technique would deteriorate if she did not practice regularly. In the end her father had agreed to let her go only if two bodyguards went with her and stood guard outside the building. It was under those conditions that Rue found herself practicing alone in the empty studio with only the crackling music from the phonograph as her companion.

The scene surfaced clearly in Rue's mind. She was performing grand jetés, her shadow mirroring her jumps as the warm glow of twilight filtered into the room through the dusty windows. She had been so absorbed in her leaps that she did not notice the young man slip into the room. The door latch clicked and the sound broke Rue's concentration for a split second, right as she was about to land from a jump.

Rue did not remember what exactly happened right after that, only the aftermath. She was lying on the floor, expecting a painfully twisted ankle as she opened her eyes. Instead she felt a warm body move beneath her and found herself in the arms of a boy with pale hair and amber colored eyes.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked in a gravely concerned voice.

Rue stared at him, then realized he had dove in and caught her from her fall. "I-I'm fine. Who are you and what are you doing here? This studio is closed." She added, though it occurred to her she was not actually upset by this stranger's intrusion on her practice session.

The boy smiled and Rue was arrested by his ethereal appearance. The fading light made the old cotton shirt he wore glow with a soft creamy color. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and she could see and feel the warm, smooth skin of his arm against her own. A slow blush crept over Rue's cheeks but she hid it by looking away from the boy as they stood up from the floor. In the background the phonograph continued to play, adding a sweet melody to this already surreal encounter.

"My name is Mytho. I'm an apprentice here but I lodge upstairs. I was told by the instructor not to come down here after five because someone had booked the studio for the evening. However, I realized I had left my shoes here after afternoon practice. I thought I would be able to pick it up before you came. I'm really sorry for interrupting you and causing you to fall. It's good that you're not hurt."

Rue was intrigued. She had never met someone like him, someone who possessed an angelic appearance and a gentle, intelligent voice. Mytho walked over to a corner and retrieved the ballet shoes she had not noticed were there before. Rue watched him, and asked, "Those shoes are barely holding together. You should get a pair of new ones."

The boy however, shook his head. "There's no need to."

"But you can't keep dancing in those; they're on the verge of falling apart! No matter how good you are as a dancer, you can't perform at your peak unless you have good shoes."

At this, Mytho turned around and Rue was taken aback by the sadness in his eyes. "That is true, but I won't be dancing any longer," he said and looked at the still room with its wooden barre and polished mirrors lining the wall. "I've run out of money and will have to move out of the studio next week. I'm trying to find work, but haven't had any luck so far."

"You can come work for my father."

Mytho's eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected offer. As for Rue, she had become captivated by this pale haired boy and desperately wanted to get to know him better. She was also desperately lonely, for she had no friends here in New York City, and craved the company of someone her own age. But since he was leaving the only way to keep him around was if he went to work for her father. _Father's always looking for new people, and this boy looks smart and sharp,_ she reasoned. And if Father likes him he will keep him around longer, and the thought of that prompted Rue to continue to say, "And once you get enough money you can come back here, or go to another place, to study and dance. That way you don't have to worry about not having a place to go."

She walked closer to him, her long shadow melting into his as the last rays of day began to fade. Though this was not her true intention, Rue felt it would get him to agree, and indeed, Mytho's spirit brightened and his smile returned. "That would be wonderful! Oh!" he seemed to realize something belatedly. "How rude of me, I haven't asked for your name yet."

"My name is Rue," the raven haired young woman responded.

"Rue," Mytho repeated, letting the syllable roll off his tongue softly. And just when Rue thought his smile couldn't get any warmer, she was proven wrong. "I'm very glad to have met you, Rue!"

Rue blinked her eyes and the memory faded back to the recess of her mind as the gray streets of New York came back into focus. Everything had gone according to plan: her father agreed to employ Mytho, and in the beginning he was a delivery boy, carrying goods the family dealt in from one associate to another. Gradually the errands became more important and riskier and it did not take long before Mytho realized just what kind of "business" her family was involved in. And yet, he never left her. Rue told herself it was because he was in love with her, just as she was in love with him; why else would he be willing to stay in the darkness when he could be shining, under the brilliant spot lights of the stage he had yearned for? Perhaps he had abandoned his hopes for ballet, content in the comfortable dark nest he had found. She had outgrown her childish dreams over the years as well. Movies have replaced more traditional performing arts in popularity, and Rue recognized that to become the prima donna she had always dreamed of she would have to trade in practice rooms for movie sets, grand jeté in a dance studio for takes in front of the camera.

But even as ballet remained no more than a footnote in the present, its influence on her past could not be easily, or willingly, erased. And it was so that as the car drove past the pointe shoe store, a pair of toe shoes advertised on a poster in the window caught her attention. For a split second in her mind, Rue remembered herself in pointe shoes, back in that time before her anxieties, and a pure and pristine Mytho held her in his arms. The shop passed by as fast as the flash of memory. Not willing to let it go, Rue leaned forward and said to the chauffeur, "Turn back around and drop me off in front of that pointe shoes shop back there."

"But the meeting Miss Legnani—"

"It will be fine. I'll tell them I got lost and it took me longer than expected."

With that the driver dutifully made his way around the block and came to a stop in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. He opened the door for Rue, who instructed him to come back in half an hour and gave him a few dollars to pass the time before he drove off, leaving her alone in front of the store.

Duck looked up when the door opened and the bell on the doorknob twinkled. Getting up from behind the counter, she brushed her dress and greeted Rue with a smile. "Hello, do you have an appointment with us today?"

Rue scanned her eyes over Duck, taking in the girl's simple clothes and old-fashioned hairstyle, and shook her head briefly. "No, I'm just looking."

"Oh! Okay, please take your time then." While Duck went back to her chair behind the counter Rue walked around the shop. On the left side of the shop were short shelves stocked with newly made pointe shoes, all separated according to size. On the back wall photographs of famous ballerinas past and present watched over a barre installed into the wall. A floor-length mirror framed in bronze shared the floor with a plush Louis XIV chair in the space between the barre and the front counter. The walls were painted a soft rose color and the vase of fresh flowers by the oak counter lent a peaceful, elegant quality to the store. All in all, Rue assessed to herself, for a place in this part of the city, this store was quite impressive, though she couldn't imagine there being too many dancers who would come to the Bronx for their pointe shoes when they could order their shoes from Paris or London, and she voiced those thoughts to the lone shop girl present.

"Quite honestly, I'm surprised to find a pointe shoe store here. Upper West Side would be a more appropriate location for a place like this."

"Mr. Vaslav Kotin said it was too expensive to open a store in that part of town, and he likes it here just fine."

"Vaslav Kotin? Is he Russian?" Rue inquired disinterestedly as she continued to browse.

Duck nodded, but Rue did not see, as only three quarter of her head was visible above the tall counter. "He came here about seven years ago because of the revolution. The photographs in the back are all pictures of his former clients."

Rue paused in her walk around the store at this revelation. "Is that so?" She arched her brows and recalled the faces of famous ballerinas she had seen. While she did not fully believe this secondhand story about the store owner's history (By her count half the prima donnas in Imperial Russia would've been his customer at one time or another, if one were to judge by the photos. Either the man was greatly exaggerating or else he really was an extraordinary cobbler), nevertheless, Rue's curiosity was piqued and she looked more closely at the shoes around her.

Almost immediately she noticed a pair of red toe shoes, so different in color from the others that she didn't know how she could have missed them when she first surveyed the store. Rue walked back to the red shoes and traced a manicured finger over the smooth satin. The shoes were indeed very well made, constructed from high quality fabric and leather, stitched and glued together seamlessly. If ballet as a whole was considered high art, then toe shoes like this would be the bases for ballet itself; for the shoes were an object of artful beauty by themselves. Thinking this, Rue mused if perhaps the owner was not exaggerating his credentials after all.

Picking up the red satin shoes, Rue turned to Duck. "I want to try these on."

Duck hesitated when she saw which pair of shoes Rue was holding. The shop girl looked at Rue uneasily. "Those belong to someone who special ordered them, I don't think—"

But Rue cut her off and took a seat in the chair by the mirror. "Nonsense, I'm only trying them on for a little bit; no one will know anyone has worn these."

Duck could do little but accept Rue's request as the raven haired actress handed the shop girl her coat and hat. Stepping into the shoes, Rue stood and examined her feet in the mirror, then at herself. From the outside the shoes look to be a good fit but Rue could feel the shank was too hard for her foot and the cut on the heel too high. This was no surprise, since the shoes weren't made for her. Nevertheless, she wanted to indulge a little. Lifting her arm, Rue laid one hand on the barre, brought her feet into fifth position, stretched her arm out, and performed a port de bras.

Duck watched from the side. She marveled at the precise movements that told her this dark haired young woman had been training professionally for a long time. In the simple turn of her foot, the curve of an arm, one could see Rue's natural grace shining through. Her expression was dreamy as she moved through her routine, her eyes half lidded as if absorbed in a world all her own. Seeing this, Duck was reminded of the pictures in the back of the shop, of the ballerinas dressed in their delicate costumes. Rue wore no tulle skirt, and because ribbons had not been sewn into the shoes, she could not go en pointe. But the silk of her shimmering dress and her lithe figure were just as enchanting as any classical dancer.

_She's so beautiful…she must be a professional dancer!_ Shyly, Duck ventured, "Mm. So what company are you with?"

Rue lowered her arms and turned her back to the mirror. With the end of the exercise the dreaminess had disappeared from her eyes, and she looked at Duck now with a clear, alert gaze. She shrugged lightly. "I don't do ballet any more."

That wasn't the answer Duck had been expecting and her voice echoed her surprise. "But why? Your technique and balance are really good—"

"Have you ever heard of the story of the girl in the red shoes?" The actress said as she sat back down in the chair, crossed her legs and reached down to caress her borrowed shoes, savoring the touch of the satin against her skin.

Duck combed through her memory of tales her grandfather had told her but could not recall any involving red shoes. Taking Duck's bewildered expression as her answer, Rue explained, "It's about a girl who was to keep dancing forever in her red shoes. I was like that once, wanting to keep dancing my days away, wanting to become the prima donna in the center of the stage."

Duck frowned. "What changed?"

Rue smiled wistfully and pulled one shoe off her feet. "I grew up, and realized no one can go on dancing forever. Now instead of dancing I have found another way to be in the spot light."

Duck was silent as Rue took off the other toe shoe. Then the shop girl said quietly, "My mother used to dance as well, but stopped after having me. She taught ballet and worked in this shop part-time after we moved here from the old country. Even though Ma stopped dancing I believe she never forgot her love for dance." Azure eyes met ruby ones as Duck smiled at the former ballerina. "Even though you've moved on, when I saw the way you moved and how happy you looked while wearing those shoes, I don't think you have forgotten your love for ballet either."

At this Rue was surprised to find herself speechless. She was naturally a quick-witted girl, and rarely found herself caught off guard by other people's words. But now, instead of words, her lips curved and she found herself returning Duck's smile. It seemed the shop owner's origin was not the only surprise she would find here. Intrigued by this seemingly unassuming girl, Rue inquired, "What's your name?"

Duck hesitated. She was used to people's surprise at her name, but yesterday's encounter with Fakir made her more wary than usual. It also didn't help that, as much as she admired Rue's beauty and talent, Duck felt a little intimidated by her, not the least of which was because of the other's commanding presence and piercing gaze. At last, Duck, with a notable measure of embarrassment, whispered, "It's…Duck."

"Duck?"

To her credit Rue didn't laugh or scoff, just raised her thin dark brows at the name. But Duck interpreted the surprised tone in Rue's voice as disbelief, and quickly explained with stumbling words, "It wasn't my idea! I don't know why my grandpa named me that, though people say he was a bit strange and had an odd sense of humor so maybe that had something to do with it. Ma didn't object because she thought it sounded cute, like a duckling, but I think it makes people think I'm clumsy, and it's all round not a very flattering name to have." By the end of that long-winded explanation Duck inhaled and blushed deeply. "So, um, what's your name?"

Rue wanted to laugh at the young woman's sputtering behavior, but thought better. Her own given name—though not nearly as unconventional as Duck's, to say the least—was not exactly memorable either, and was the precise reason why she now went by a stage name. Thus she could relate to Duck's dilemma, and so, before Rue even realized it, she answered, "Call me Rue."

At this moment Rue's car pulled up outside the shop. The young actress looked at her watch and expelled an annoyed sigh. "Drat, I need to get going." She handed the toe shoes to Duck who hurried to gather her hat and coat. As Rue stepped out of the shop, she stopped when Duck called to her from the doorway, "It was nice meeting you, Rue!" she said with sincerity and a smile that was as genuine as the sunlight illuminating her freckled cheeks.

In front of Rue the chauffeur held the door of the car open for her, waiting for her to return from this chance tangent and back to the path she should be taking. It was unlikely she will ever meet this girl with the unusual name ever again, just another face in the endless stream of people one meets in one's lifetime. But Rue turned around, stopped, and returned the smile before stepping into the car.

The pointe shoe shop grew ever smaller from her view from the back windshield. Rue gave the corner it stood on one last lingering look before the car turned down a different street. Looking down at her pumps, the feeling of toes shoes still fresh in her mind, Rue felt the unease from earlier subsiding a little. Perhaps the girl named Duck was right: ballet still played a sizable role in her life even now. Perhaps there would always be some things that did not change with time, Rue pondered, and found comfort in those thoughts.

* * *

As Duck returned home that night she thought about Rue, of her relinquished dream of dancing, of a mobster dressed in white, of detectives and their smoke filled office. Duck locked the creaking wooden door to her apartment behind her and tugged on a switch somewhere in the dark. The single light bulb in the dining room flickered to life and cast deep shadows beneath the dining table and cabinets. It was a small, under-heated apartment, but the various knickknacks and homeliness of the furnishings gave the otherwise dank living space a feeling of comfort.

Making her way to the single bedroom, Duck walked up to a chest-high cabinet. A white lace tablecloth covered the top of the wooden cabinet, atop which sat two small photographs, a pair of worn toe shoes, and a small jewelry box. The larger of the two photos showed a woman with hair the same shade as Duck's, her slender body clothed in the costume and headdress of Odette. She stood en pointe, her arms spread wide as if she was to take flight. On the lower left corner was sighed the name "Elsa" in an elegant script. In the second photograph the same woman, now dressed in normal clothing, sat beside a young girl who bore a striking resemblance to her and to Duck. The woman had her arm wrapped around the girl while the child rested her head on the woman's lap. Both wore the same smile, and it was this happy photo Duck picked up and spoke to.

"I met someone very pretty today, Ma. Her name is Rue. She was a dancer, just like you. She came in and tried on a pair of shoes we have after that annoying detective from yesterday showed up again." The thought of Fakir made Duck make a face in the dark but her annoyance soon faded and Duck looked down at the photograph of her mother and herself with confused and apprehensive eyes.

"I really wish I hadn't seen what I saw yesterday, but there's nothing I can do to change that is there?" Duck paused, in thought. "'Principe', that's the nickname of the man I saw yesterday. I'm scared when I think about him but also, somehow, I can't stop thinking about him. He seems like such a beautiful person, just like Rue today, but when I remember what he said to the man who was killed...it frightens me. The cops want me to identify him face-to-face, and I know it's the right thing to bring criminals to justice, but the thought of seeing him again scares me so much." Duck tightened her fingers around the gilded silver of the frame and felt tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't tell anyone about all this, because it would be dangerous if the bad guys found out about me. Not even Lilie or Pique, or even Miss Edel is to know about it. But it's hard…not being able to tell anyone."

Taking a deep breath and exhaling with a sniff, Duck wiped away the moisture gathered at the edge of her eyes. Looking back down at the woman in the photograph she knew her mother wouldn't be able to answer her, for she had died many years ago during the flu pandemic. Duck remembered how helpless she was at the time. She was only fourteen and had been stricken with a mild bout of the disease from which she made a full recovery. But the flu brought down her mother with a vengeance. The hospitals were already overflowing with patients and her mother, who had been strong and healthy all her life, grew so weak so quickly she couldn't get out of bed. Duck cared for her as best she could, never leaving her side except to fetch groceries and medicine.

Through it all, her mother never lost hope, never gave into despair at her condition, even though she knew full well how serious her illness was. A page of Duck's memory turned at her recollection, and Duck remembered asking her mother a few days before she passed away what she would do if she were gone. She had been scared back then too. Her grandpa had passed away before they came to the states and her mother was her only remaining family and she would be all alone without her. Her mother, Elsa, had looked at her then, her skin as pale as the sheets that covered her. Weary but steady blue eyes met trembling blue eyes, and the steady blue eyes smiled.

_It will be alright, Love. Even if I'm no longer here I know you will be able to manage by yourself, and there is Mr. Kotin and Miss Edel to look after you. And even if they weren't there to help you, know this: you are never as alone as you believe yourself to be._

"'You are never as alone as you believe yourself to be.'" Duck repeated the words to herself. Hugging the photo to her chest, a soothing feeling trickled through her body. Her mother's words comforting her now as they did then.

_It will be alright..._

* * *

The next morning Duck was woken by the sound of heavy footsteps and loud noises. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the alarm clock (which kept decent time, even if it didn't live up to the "alarm" part of its name) on the nightstand by her bed and found the hands pointing at 7:52. It bewildered her why anyone would be making a ruckus this early in the morning, on a Saturday no less. There was no chance of her falling back asleep with the noise bouncing in through the thin walls. And so, irritably, Duck rose and wrapped herself in her bathrobe before stalking out to the hallway to see what the racket was about.

To her surprise she saw only a single person, not the army she had been expecting, walking down the corridor. The person held a stack of boxes but when he shifted them in his arms and turned his face sideways, Duck gasped in recognition.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

The person with the boxes was none other than Fakir, now dressed in a simple white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and dark trousers. At her exclamation, he put the boxes down on the scarred wooden floor and nodded his head towards the empty unit next to hers. "I'm moving into my new apartment. I finished all the paper works yesterday and the landlord gave me the keys this morning. Starting from today, this will be my new home," he said casually, but there was a tone of unconcealed smugness in his voice.

Duck could only stand there and gap at him. She couldn't believe this. He was moving in next door to her, this prick who insulted her name, stalked her at work, was now going to live right next to her! Her eye twitched at the thought. The dismay and anger in her swelled and bubbled, and like a kettle set to boiling, she bellowed out into a cry loud enough to wake the whole building.

"Aarrgggg! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!"

* * *

A/N: It's time for a few notes! As one reviewer asked me in the last chapter, yes, "Corvo" is Italian for "crow". I tried looking up "raven" but Google Translate wasn't able to find a noun for me, so crows it is!

"Kot" in Russian means "cat", and the "-in" ending is a common Russian ending to family names. Mr. Kotin's first name of "Vaslav" is a tribute to the very famous Russian danseur, Vaslav Nijinsky.

Rue's stage name of "Odile Legnani" is a combination of the Black Swan Odile from _Swan Lake_ and the Italian ballerina, Pierina Legnani. Pierina Legnani was the first ballerina to perform the famous 32 fouettes en tournant, a series of turns first performed in a production of _Cinderella_ but which would later become a signature routine of the Black Swan in productions of _Swan Lake_.

Edel's last name of "Stein" means "stone" in German. If you were to string her first and last name into one word, you'd get "edelstein" which is German for "gemstone", a name which I think is very fitting for a jewelry store owner.

The word "prick" in the context of describing an annoying individual didn't come about until 1929. I'm using it here because it expresses what I want the characters to feel, and since I'm not going for 100% historical accuracy, I thought you guys would let me slide on this. XD;;

Lastly, thanks once again to HaleySings for betaing this story!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The door of Duck's apartment closed with a "chink", a sound echoed a few seconds later from nearby.

Duck glared indirectly at the person locking the door behind him. She turned and started to walk away. Behind her Fakir's footsteps followed in her wake and the red haired girl scowled as she stomped down the stairs. From their apartment, down to the pavement, around the street corner, the young detective, dressed in his pin strip suit and fedora, would walk a few paces behind her. To the average pedestrian nothing looked out of the ordinary, simply two people walking in the same direction in the early morning commute. But to Duck, it felt as if Fakir was right behind her, his breath practically rolling down her back.

And so with shoulders hunched, Duck made her way to work with this persistent shadow behind her back. Since he moved in little more than a week ago, Fakir began following her to work and tailing her on her way home every day. In the beginning Duck had tried to throw him off by leaving her apartment earlier but he was always already in the hallway, waiting for her. She had even tried to out run him, but despite her above average sprinting abilities, even Duck could not run the entire mile-long eight city blocks to work without stopping to catch her breath. And when she did Fakir would stroll past her, perfectly composed while she huffed and puffed on the sidewalk.

But that was hardly the worst part of having this prick of a gumshoe as a neighbor, Duck thought to herself as she crossed onto E Street. She recalled the morning when she learned he was moving next door to her as one of the worst mornings in her life.

"Aarrgggg! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" She had bellowed when she first found out.

This being New York, and this being a small tenant building with thin walls, Duck's outburst did not go unnoticed.

"Who is makin' all this ruckus in the morning?" An angry old lady wearing a mob cap yanked her door open, and though she couldn't see the perpetrators through her squinty eyes, it didn't stop her from letting lose some loud, angry words of her own. "If you're gonna yell take it somewhere else! The rest of us are tryin' to sleep, you know!" and with a mighty "bang!" she disappeared back behind her door, leaving a stunned and embarrassed Duck frozen in place.

Fakir didn't seem affected by this episode at all, and reached into his pant pocket to grab something before holding it out to Duck.

"Here," he tossed the object to Duck, who nearly drop it before her fumbling hands closed around the thing. Looking down, she saw a small key lying on her palm, its metallic surface gleaming softly when it caught the light just so.

"This is the key to my place. If something happens and you need to find me you can get into my apartment with that spare key."

Duck's head snapped up as a blush rapidly spread across her face, nearly matching the shade of her hair in its color. "W-what kind of man gives a girl the key to his room?" She pushed the key back to him and backed away with her hands raised in front of her. "There's no way I'm going to keep that!"

Fakir rolled his eyes. Taking the key, he lifted up the rug at the front of his door and slipped the key underneath it. "I'm going to leave it here then, but whether you like it or not, I'm not going to let you out of my sight," he said, fixing her with a look that matched his assertive tone.

"I don't know if you've somehow got this all screwed up in your head, but I am not the criminal that you're trying to catch!"

Fakir put his hands into his pockets and in a voice that clearly demonstrated he was not the least intimidated or bothered by her anger, said, "I'm doing this for your own good. I suggest you make it easier for yourself by accepting things for the way they are." Despite Duck absolutely fuming at him, he continued, "If you're going to travel anywhere besides work and the grocers, I need you to tell me ahead of time. That includes any trips with friends or family, as well as any special errands you have to run."

At this point Duck had just about had it with his insistent demands. Not only has her Saturday morning been ruined by him, he had no notion or respect for her privacy and opinion either. She turned sharply on her slippered heels and walked back into her apartment. Gripping the knob of her door, she craned her neck at him and said defiantly, "I don't have to tell you anything! You're supposed to be a detective right? If you want to know where I'm going then figure it out for yourself!"

And with that her door closed with a loud, rattling "bang!"

This had happened more than a week ago, and Duck was beginning to regret making that declaration (or was it a challenge?) the way she did when she did it. Fakir had indeed followed her everywhere, even without her giving him a single clue where she might be going. When she went to the bookshop to pick up a crossword puzzle book, he waited outside the whole time. When she went to get her alarm clock fixed, he was there too, sitting casually at the diner across the street from the clock smith.

Combined with the fact that he would follow her to and from work everyday, had Duck been any less exasperated by him she'd probably find his tracking ability more unnerving than infuriating.

The door of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop clinked musically as Duck slumped in for another day of work. Outside, Fakir walked past the shop window without a pause in his step, but when Duck looked up she met his eyes through the glass and scowled at him until he disappeared beyond the window.

When she turned back, Pique and Lilie stood perched on the front counter, watching the whole exchange. Pique grinned at Duck. "Honestly, I don't see why you're so upset, Duck. I'd be more than willing to have a handsome guy like that follow me everywhere I go."

"Oh! I sense a battle brewing! Duck, what ever will you do? Pique is amorous of your secret admirer! Well—maybe not _that_ secret since we all know about it—but still!" Lilie said with visible excitement in her voice.

Duck could only groan in response. Ever since she had confronted Fakir across the street Pique and Lilie have gotten the idea that Fakir was her flame into their heads. While Duck had repeatedly denied that was the case, her friend either had highly selective hearing or else they simply found the situation too amusing to _not_ keep teasing her about it. Either way, it gave Duck one more reason to resent the young detective.

_It's a good thing I didn't tell them he's living next to me, or else…_Duck blushed at the potential jokes her friends would make at that bit of information and quickly stuffed the thought back down. After the chatter about tall, handsome strangers had died down, Pique picked up a page of newspaper that had been resting beside her arm on the counter.

"Say Duck, have you seen this?" Duck looked at the page Pique held out to her and saw it was an advertisement for the Macy's Christmas Parade*.

"The Christmas Parade?"

Pique nodded her head enthusiastically. "It's supposed to stretch from 145th Street all the way to Broadway. Lilie and I are planning to go tomorrow and we're hoping you'd be able to come with us since you missed out on the café last time."

Duck mentally grimaced at the idea of Fakir following her through New York City with her friends in tow when an idea struck her: what if he _thought_ she wasn't going anywhere that day?

* * *

Later that evening after having bid her friends good bye, Duck turned her feet towards home. Fakir was waiting for her at the corner of the street and neither greeted the other in any way as they walked back together, a few paces apart again. Duck didn't stop until she was in front of her door, and there she cast her eyes over her shoulder and glowered at him. "Just how long do you intend to keep following me anyway?"

Fakir walked past her to the door of his apartment and took out his own key. "However long it takes for this case to go to court."

Duck looked at him flabbergasted. "Even on holidays?"

Fakir looked at her, then turned his attention back to unlocking his door. "Why? Are you planning to go somewhere tomorrow?"

Standing her ground obstinately, Duck barked back, "What I do on my day off is none of your business!"

"Well I've made it _my_ business." Fakir glared back at her, challenging her with his own resolute decision.

At his retort, Duck's cheeks puffed up and she yelled, "Urg! Fine, I'm not going anywhere, okay? At least that way I can have one day without you in my face!" Pulling open her door with far more force than necessary, Duck closed it loudly behind her. Leaning against the door, Duck took a minute to take a few deep breathes to calm her temper. Once her head has cooled, a smile broke over her face and she knew she was in the clear for tomorrow's parade.

Fakir, for his part, had merely rolled his eyes at Duck's brisk attitude towards him. It didn't matter to him what she thought of him. While she had been more aptly an annoying eyesore than a useful eyewitness thus far, he was willing to put up with her knowing it was for the sake of the case he was building. But keeping up with her had not been easy, and more than once he almost lost track of her when she tried to shake him off. Despite those setbacks Fakir had one thing on his side: persistence. Little did he know that today, on a cold November morning, that persistence would be put to the test.

The morning of November 27th was lightly overcast with the sunlight turned into a hazy glow over the tops and edges of buildings and water towers. Duck opened a crack in the door of her apartment and was delighted to see the hallway deserted. Tip toeing out, she walked cautiously down the hall, taking care to avoid all the places in the floorboard that creaked. Once down the first two flights of stairs, she quickened her pace and made a bee line for the shop where she was to meet up with Lilie and Pique.

Meanwhile Fakir stood by his window, a cup of coffee in hand. Waking up by the crack of dawn was his habit and he hadn't had the luxury of enjoying his coffee in the morning since starting his watch on Lake Avenue. However his peace was cut short when a dash of red ran across the street below him. At first Fakir wasn't sure what it was that he saw, but in a split second he recognized the swinging braid that trailed out from beneath the yellow hat.

"Damn!"

Fakir slammed the coffee mug down so hard he would later find a nice crack in the glaze. Grabbing his hat and coat, he found himself on the pavement half a minute later just as Duck rounded a corner several blocks away, moving towards the pointe shop. Fakir sprinted after her, but her lead was significant and he could not catch up to her. By the time he made the turn to C Street, he caught a glimpse of Duck and her friends standing in a street car before the trolley and its passengers disappeared from view. Realizing it was impossible for him to catch up to her now he stopped in the nearly deserted street, panting and more than a little angry at the disappearing act Duck had managed to pull on him. Wiping his hand through his sweat tinged hair, his eyes stopped on a figure beside the pointe shoe shop.

Edel stood sweeping the pavement outside her store. She did so leisurely, with her eyes to her work, but from her alert eyes and the tilt of her face one could tell she was very much aware of what was going on around her. And it was so when Fakir walked up to her, she lifted her eyes to meet his and her hands stopped their work as if she'd been expecting him the whole time.

"How might I help you?" she inquired calmly.

Though he saw her nearly everyday when Duck stopped by the Stein Jewelry Shop, Fakir was struck by her cool gaze and smooth, even voice. He cleared his throat, "I was wondering if you could tell me where Duck has gone."

"And what business might you have with Duck?" Edel responded.

"I need to see her. I saw her going off somewhere with her friends. Would you by any chance know where they are going?" he asked again.

Edel turned to face him, the broom stick resting in the crock of her right arm as she stood blocking Fakir's path. "I see you following her everyday, yet you do not know to where she had gone." The willowy woman studied him. "Just who are you and why are you so interested in Duck's whereabouts?"

Being a cop in New York City, Fakir was not easily intimidated. He'd faced thugs, murders, and thieves aplenty, yet the woman who stood in front of him made him nervous, like a school boy called to stand in front of the headmistress. Unable to find his voice for a satisfactory answer, he reached inside his coat and held up the sparkling police badge in his palm. Fakir had hoped the sight of the badge would help him get the answers he needed, as most civilians were intimidated by the sight of a police badge, but Edel only studied it with a jeweler's critical eye before seeming to dismiss it.

"She saw something, didn't she?"

Fakir's eyes grew wide and his shoulders tensed. "How—" he began, but Edel silenced him with a shake of her head.

"Duck would never get herself into trouble. The only reason for the police to keep watch over her would be if she had inadvertently become involved in something." Edel's eyes fell and it was not hard to see from this small gesture that this unsettled the normally composed woman.

'That's why I'm trying to protect her." Fakir's voice brought Edel's eyes back to him. "That's why I'm asking you to please tell me where she's gone. If her existence as a witness is discovered she will be in serious danger!"

There was a long protracted silence when neither of them spoke. Fakir realized what was happening now: Edel was judging him. From his research on the people around Duck, Edel had been living here a long time and would've watched Duck grow up. It was clear from Duck's daily greeting that she was very close to Edel, and though Edel wasn't effusive with her affections, it was undeniable that she was very fond of Duck as well. It was only natural that when a stranger started to follow the young woman around a maternal figure like Edel would be wary of him, Fakir told himself. But the question now was whether Edel trusted him.

"They've gone to see the Christmas Parade," Edel answered at last and Fakir let out the breath he had been holding, knowing he had passed her test. "However," Edel looked off to the distance, "the parade route is long and there will be thousands of people there. How will you hope to find her? Perhaps it is best to wait and hope for her safe return."

_She has a point._ Fakir's brows furrowed. But who knows what could happen in the course of one day? If nothing happened to Duck and she returned safely that would be for the best, but in case something was to happen today he wanted to know he at least tried to keep her safe.

Edel watched him as he debated his course of action with himself. When she saw him seeming to have made up his mind, she smiled faintly and said, "Duck told me she and her friends were planning to take the subway and go to Herald Square. That would narrow the search for you. Nonetheless, it will still be extremely difficult to find her."

"I have to try first!" Fakir stepped forward and Edel stepped out of his way. She continued to smile as he dashed down the street on Duck's trail.

* * *

Once they've arrived on the parade route Duck was glad she was able to ditch Fakir earlier. She, Lilie, and Pique had spent the last few hours marveling at acrobats balanced precariously on stilts, elephants and giraffes walking in neat rolls, bands playing merry tunes from polished trombones and trumpets, colorful floats and balloons with cheering people in costumes. Now it was nearly noon and the parade was nearing it end and the crowd was getting restless for the big finale. It was also at this time that Duck felt her stomach rumble and she was reminded of how early she had had breakfast this morning.

A little embarrassed, Duck said to her friends, "I'm getting hungry. How about we get lunch somewhere?"

"Huh? Did you say something?" Lilie asked, her voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd and the parade itself.

Raising her voice, Duck yelled, "I said, do you guys want to have lunch right now?"

Lilie shook her head and Pique shouted back, "If we leave our spot now we won't be able to get a good view of Santa Claus when he arrives!"

"Oh..." Duck settled back into her spot and tried to ignore the growing hunger pain in her stomach. _It'll be over soon, and I don't want to miss the last part after having come all this way_, she thought to herself. But her hunger pain only grew more pronounced and it became harder and harder for Duck to ignore the pinched feeling in her abdomen. Hoping for a quick bite, Duck stood up on her tiptoes to survey her surroundings. Looking behind her, she saw a small hot dog stand in the building behind them. There were other people there buying and eating food, and the sight of that alone made the rumbling more acute. Giving in to her body's demands, Duck tapped Pique on the shoulder and shouted, "I'm going to go buy some food, I'll be right back!"

Too hungry to bothering confirming whether Pique heard her, Duck turned and wiggled her way out of the crowd before running up to the stand. Pulling out a few coins, she soon had a juicy hot dog in her hands. Not bothering with condiments, the red haired girl quickly devoured the food, only to realize she was still hungry. Two more hot dogs later and finally beginning to feel like her usual self, Duck turned down the street to rejoin her friends. Only getting out of this crowd was easier than getting back in. Standing on tip toes again, Duck tried to find her friends where she remembered they had been, but due to her short stature and the thickness of the crowd she could not make out where Pique and Lilie were. Elbowing her way wouldn't help any if she couldn't even see them, Duck reasoned, and jumped up a few times in another attempt at spotting her friends.

A flash of white out of the corner of her eye caught Duck's attention. She stopped jumping. In fact, she almost stopped breathing. Across the street from the hot dog stand a man in white appeared out of a flower shop, a bouquet of bright red roses in hand, accompanied by a tall man dressed in black closely behind him.

Duck's breath nearly caught in her throat as she continued to stare. The man in white wore a hat, the same hat, Duck realized, that she had seen days ago in that dark alley. There was no mistake; these were two of the people she saw that night. Whether it was coincidence or fate that brought her near him again she could not say, but Duck found herself looking intently at the man's face. So it happened that as a black Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost pulled up in front of the men, the man in white lifted his face and the clear sunlight lit up his face, allowing her an unobstructed view of his features for the first time. But the moment ended just as quickly as it happened when the tall man opened the door of the car for him and he ducked inside, the car door closing behind him. The tall man then climbed into the front passenger seat and the vehicle began to move away.

Duck opened her mouth to call it to a stop, then realized what she was about to do and clamped her mouth shut. Through the backseat window she could still make out the pale outline of the mobster's head, and hoping to catch another glimpse of him, she dashed across the street, trying to catch the car before it turned onto the main street parallel to the parade route. She ran up to the intersection but in her rush she didn't turn to see the car coming at her. A sharp painful tug on her braid pulled her back from the near collision as the car that would've hit her pass by with a blaring blast from its horn.

"Ow!" Duck reached behind her head and massaged her abused scalp before turning to see Fakir, his hand still clasped tightly around the end of her braid.

"What are you—!" Duck was about to shout, but Fakir beat her to it.

"What were you doing? Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed by running into traffic?"

"No I wasn't!" Duck tugged her braid free from Fakir's hand, suddenly feeling the adrenaline coursing through her after the near accident. "I-I didn't notice the car coming at me because I saw two of the men from the other night!"

"What?"

Duck pointed to the Silver Ghost which was fast disappearing down the street. "I saw two men come out of a flower shop and get into a car—"

Before Duck could finish speaking Fakir had taken off in the direction she was pointing at. The car had stopped at a red light and Fakir was just able to make out its plate number before it started up and drove off again, leaving Fakir and Duck in its proverbial dust. Fakir rushed to pull out a small palm-sized notebook and his pen and jotted down the license plate number as Duck caught up with him.

"Did you by any chance get a better look at them this time?" Fakir asked.

"Only the person you call 'Principe'. He has layered white hair, to about here," Duck indicated with her hand. "And his skin was fair, almost doll-like, I would say."

"Doll-like?" Fakir frowned. Where had he heard that description before?

Duck nodded. "I still couldn't see what color his eyes are, but from the quick glimpse I caught of him that's what I remember." Hesitantly, she asked, "But that's about all I saw. He only looked up for a split second so I couldn't get a very good look."

"That's fine." Holding up the notebook with the license place number, Fakir felt a rush of energy in his veins. But the echo of that doll-like description still nagged at the edge of his mind, like a memory just beyond reach. He pushed the feeling away irritatedly and looked at Duck. "With this number we'll be able to find out who that car belongs to. That'll tell us who Principe's associate is."

Duck nodded mutely and the two of them stood silently on the sidewalk, both waiting for the rush of adrenaline to pass. Finally Duck said sheepishly, "So...how did you manage to find me?"

Fakir glanced at her and snorted. "Trying to trick me into thinking you weren't going anywhere for the day, huh? Well I saw you leave the building from my window and followed you as far as your store. Edel told me you were coming to see the parade at Herald Square and I came here to look for you."

Duck narrowed her eyes, "You must've been a blood hound or something in another life, because the way you keep following me is uncanny."

"Blame your hair," Fakir tipped his chin at her braid. "It makes you stand out like a sore thumb in a crowd. I recognized it as soon as I took one glance down the street."

Indignant, Duck touched her hair defensively. "Still, you didn't have to yank on it!"

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "And leave you to get run over by that car?"

"I—" Duck closed her mouth. He was right, if he hadn't pulled her back she would've been run over for sure, and that's when it dawned on her that Fakir had in fact saved her life. Still miffed about having her hair pulled and being found despite her plans, Duck had to grudgingly admit that if he hadn't arrived at that moment she would've been in serious trouble. Her mother had always told her to thank people for their help, no matter how big or small, and even though Duck resisted the idea of thanking Fakir, her mother's influence on her was strong and so in a soft, barely audible voice, she muttered, "Thank you..."

"What?" The noise from the crowd, a throng of cheering voices as the parade came to a close, buried Duck's voice as Fakir strained to hear what she was trying to say.

"I said, THANK YOU!" Duck bellowed into Fakir's face, which combined with the last crescendo of cacophony from the crowd nearby, nearly deafened him.

"Jesus Christ! You didn't have to say it that loud!"

"It's your fault you didn't hear me the first time I said it!" Duck accused, not altogether justly.

Fakir was about to retort back but Lilie and Pique appeared in the dissolving crowd. "Duck!" Lilie waved, while Pique said, "Where did you go? You missed seeing Saint Nick being crowned!"*

"I told you guys I was going to get something to eat." Duck contested.

"Neither of us heard a thing. We thought you had disappeared into thin air! But it looks like you were simply spending some time with someone else!" Lilie and Pique nudged Duck in the ribs, twin sly grins on their faces and Duck suddenly realized Fakir was still there with them.

"I-no, ah, Fakir and I just sort of ran into each other! I don't—"

"Oh! So his name's Fakir! What an exotic name! Is he a young sheik? A prince from Arabia? You must tell us!"* Lilie jerked Duck's head towards her and gushed.

"I was wondering when you would introduce him to us! You really don't have to keep these things a secret from us you know," Pique said, her voice sounding slightly hurt which made Duck feeling even more awkward and confused by the whole situation.

Fakir on the other hand, observed Duck's interaction with her friend like a bystander observing a car accident, both a little disturbed and yet oddly fascinated by their rapid banter. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, he tucked the notebook and pen back into his pocket and walked away without saying a word. Seeing him take off, Duck reached out her hand as if she wanted to say something to him before he left, only to realize she didn't know what she wanted to say and let her hand drop back down to her side. _He should've at least said good bye before he left_, Duck grumbled half-heartedly to herself as her friends continued to talk around her. _Jerk._

* * *

In the dim interior of the Rolls-Royce Mytho sat with the bouquet he had bought next to him. The dark fragrance from the flowers permeated the cab of the car, making it feel eerily seductive in its sweetness.

"Roses, Mytho?" a deep, raspy voice inquired from the figure seated across from Mytho in the custom Silver Ghost.

Mytho smiled, and reached to finger one of the velvet soft petals. "To make up for being away from Rue so often in the past few weeks."

"I see..." the figure opposite Mytho said. The man was dressed in a black silk suit and a hat concealed half his face. His hands, large and bony, rest over the top of a walking stick. On his left ring finger the man wore a large gold ring depicting a raven with bright rubies for eyes and a sharp gaping mouth. "You would not have to make up for time lost had the job been done cleanly, Principe."

Mytho's smile vanished and his eyes became deathly calm while his hand abruptly plucked the petal he had been fingering from its blossom, balling it up into a pulp in his fist. "All the necessary people been paid off or quieted. Was there more this time?"

"Yes," the black figure's sentence was interrupted by a violent fit of coughs. Mytho reached into his pocket and offered the figure a white handkerchief which the man refused with a wave of his hand. Clearing his throat, the figure said with a wheeze. "But it is not so simple this time. I've just learned that there is apparently a witness to the hit on Alphonse."

Mytho's eyes narrowed. "Do we know who he or she is?"

"No. The police have been very careful with this one, and no one on our side has been able to get a peek at the files yet. But with a little more work, and some more dollars, it will only be a matter of time before we get a name."

Mytho acknowledged this solemnly, bowing his head. "I will take greater care in the future, Father. Please forgive me for my failure this time."

There was a long sigh from the aged figure. He reached forward and lifted up Mytho's chin with one hand. "If you wish to succeed in life, failure, no matter how small, is not an option. This is particularly true for us, in our line of business. You must not hesitate, or else what you want will forever be out of your reach."

His eyes closed, Mytho leaned forward and kissed the ring on the man's left hand. "I will do as you say, Father. And I will not fail."

* * *

The next day Duck and Fakir began their routine as they had for days now. As they walked one in front of the other, Duck found her mind wandering off to different distractions along the way to work instead of constantly fretting over Fakir's presence. Since the parade, she no longer felt edgy having him behind her. In fact it even set her mind at ease, knowing he was watching out for her close by. _Weird_, Duck thought to herself as she made her way to C Street. _Maybe I'm starting to get use to him following me. _

So lost was Duck in her own thoughts she didn't see Edel in front of the Stein Jewelry Store until she was practically at its doorstep. "Oh, good morning Miss Edel!" Duck chimed.

Edel smiled back and Duck was under the impression that her smile was deeper than usual somehow. "Come inside Duck, I have something to show you."

Duck's eyes perked up at this. Every once in a while Edel would come across a particularly nice jewel and would show it to Duck. "What did you get this time?" she asked as they entered her shop. Edel didn't respond, only walked around behind a counter and pulled out a small jewel case. Opening the case, Duck leaned in over the counter to see a gem, well, two gems actually, for they seemed to be fused together at one edge. The stones were heart-shaped, with one made out of a rich ruby and the other a spotless diamond. They sparkled beautifully in Edel's hand and Duck thought it was the most beautiful jewel she had ever seen.

"The jewel's name is 'Courage'," Duck looked up as Edel spoke, "it is a gem made of two."

"Do the individual stones themselves have names?" Duck wondered.

Edel gently closed the box and put the jewel back behind the counter. Smiling enigmatically, which only added to Duck's puzzlement, the jeweler answered, "Yes they do, and someday you will find out what they are, Duck."

* * *

A/N: *The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade was originally called the Macy's Christmas Parade, and as you've probably guessed it, it started in 1924, the year this story is set in. The original parade route started in 145th Street and goes all the way to 34th Street where Herald Square, and the original Macy's store, stands. The organizers for the parade even borrowed animals from Central Park Zoo in addition to hiring live bands, acrobats, performers, floats, and other attractions. At the end of the first parade Santa Claus entered Herald Square where he was crowned "King of the Kiddies" on a balcony on the 34th Street store. And if you're wondering why I didn't mention any balloons in this fic, that's because they weren't included in the parade until 1927. ;) I wanted to get this chapter out by Thanksgiving to coincide with this year's parade, by sadly life and a brief bout of writer's block got in the way and it was delayed until now. D:

*A nod to the popular 1921 silent film, "The Sheik", staring Rudolph Valentino, the original movie heart throb.

Again, credit to HaleySings for betaing.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

An evanescent trail of smoke drifted lazily from the cigarette sitting on the edge of the ashtray. Fakir picked up the half burned cigarette, inhaled, and released a stream of the same grayish smoke from between his lips. The street outside was just as gray, as snow had fallen the night before. The wet ice mixing with the grit made the city seem as if it had been covered by frozen ash under the silver full moon.

Despite it being Saturday, Fakir continued with his work. On his desk files lie opened, documents were stacked haphazardly in one corner, and the glossy faces of half a dozen black and white photos glared in the bright electric light from the desk lamp. Fakir picked up one of the photos, showing a geriatric man in a well tailored suit, surrounded by three bodyguards exiting a building. At the bottom of the photo in Fakir's handwriting was the name "Domenico Corvo" underlined with a sharp, swift stroke. The car license number he had gotten last week had been traced back to Don Corvo, but without a positive ID of who was in the car there was no way to establish a credible link between the man Duck saw at the crime scene and the head of the Corvo family.

Fakir slapped the photo onto the desk. It always came back to him. _Principe_, Fakir repeated the name in his mind. Leaning back against the hard wooden back of his chair, he thought about the description Duck had given him.

_...Layered white hair...and his skin was fair, almost doll-like._

Doll-like.

The feeling of déjà vu he had felt when Duck spoke those words to him gave way to a flash of recollection. The grass was lush and the sky was bright. As he crossed the crest of the hill a white mop of hair appeared, giving way to the back of a boy sitting on the spring grass, his face to the sun. A small noise, the source of which long lost to time, made the pale haired boy turn around, revealing smooth, creamy skin and round, amber eyes. Just like a porcelain doll, the ghostly echo of a thought whispered.

Fakir's eyes snapped open as his lips gasped, "Mytho..."

_No, that's impossible._ Fakir shook his head mentally, frowned, and tapped the cigarette over the ashtray. _He's gone to go study ballet, like he'd always wanted to. He said he was going to New York, and_—At this point Fakir had to physically shake his head several times to try and clear the thought from his mind. This is foolish, he told himself, but even as he tried to convince himself as such, he couldn't completely dismiss the uneasy feeling simmering in his chest.

Irritated by this feeling of anxiety, and stiff from sitting in front of his desk for half the day, Fakir sighed and ground out his cigarette. Running his hands through his hair, he realized how tired and grimy he felt, and wondered when was the last time he took a bath. Figuring a shower (even if it was a cold one, in the likely scenario that the building's water heater happened to be broken) would help to clear his mind, Fakir turned off the lamp, left a clean shirt on the bed to change into afterward, and went to gather what paraphernalia he needed before heading to the common bathroom down the hallway.

Duck meanwhile, had gone downstairs to pick up her mail, and grimaced at the bills she had in her hands. "The electric bill came already? But I haven't gotten my paycheck yet!" She winced. _If I pay the bill I won't have enough for rent. Maybe I can pay half of the bill for now...but they might charge me for an incomplete payment. Oh!_ As Duck worked through her options she held up her apartment key to her door when suddenly the fuzzy hallway light above her gave out.

"Eh!" Duck looked up and in her moment of surprise the key fell from her hand and landed with two sequential "chink"s somewhere on the floor. "Oh, drat!" Duck heaved a heavy sigh in the dark. Not knowing where her key might have fallen, Duck peered around her to no avail. As she fumbled blindly in the dark, her feet kicked against something and she caught a flash of something metallic skit across the floor, disappearing under the door next to her own.

Duck couldn't help but let out an exasperated moan. As if paying the bills wasn't problematic enough, she had just locked herself out of her apartment during a black out and her key was now somewhere behind Fakir's door. Swallowing her pride, she knocked on the door but no one answered. Thinking maybe he did not hear her, she knocked again, harder this time, but still there was no reply._ Great, the one time when I need him to be home he's not here!_ Duck crouched down to peered through the crack underneath his door. Squinting her eyes and pressing her cheek flush against the floor, Duck was only able to make out the foot of some table and chairs. Not knowing where Fakir had done and when he would return, Duck shrank at the thought of waiting in the cold, dark hallway for him or the electricity to return.

Her eyes still on the ground in front of Fakir's door, Duck remembered the spare key Fakir left under the thin doormat. She had thought the spare key to be completely unnecessary when Fakir first offered it to her, but this was an emergency, Duck reasoned to herself, and lifted up the rug.

The quiet interior of the dining room greeted her as she opened the door. With the electric lights off the vacant room was dimly illuminated by rectangles of street and moon light cutting through the frame of the windows. Looking around her, Duck walked slowly into the still apartment. She looked around at the floor but did not see her key. Venturing further into the apartment, Duck check under the cabinets and lifted up the skirt of the table cloth but found nothing but dust. Straightening her back, she looked behind her at the room across from the front door, which she guessed was Fakir's bedroom. If she had kicked the key hard enough it was possible the key might've made it all the way in there, but Duck hesitated. She had never been alone in a man's apartment before, much less a man's bedroom. The red haired young woman blushed involuntarily. _This is a serious situation!_ she told herself, and she did not care for the idea of spending the night in the hallway because she couldn't locate her key.

The floorboards whispered softly as Duck stepped into the bedroom. A single steel-framed bed with neatly made bedding rested in one corner of the room. A tall wooden wardrobe stood guard next to a nightstand at the head of the bed, while a desk was set near the door, behind the foot end of the bed. Duck turned to her left and saw a bookshelf. With the window letting in enough light for her to read by, Duck skimmed the names of half a dozen volumes of legal text, tracing a finger under the solemn titles printed on the books' leather spines. The novelty of being in a stranger's private room firmly distracting her from her task, Duck looked up and down the shelf but saw not one novel or work of literature. _I know he's a stiff, but he can't possibly read just law books all the time, can he? Mm, maybe that explains why he's got such a dour personality, _Duck mused as her eyes drifted from the shelf to the desk.

The photos laid out on the desk piqued Duck's interest and she walked up for a closer look. "Domenico Corvo," she read the name aloud when her eyes alighted on Don Corvo's portrait at the top of the pile. "So this is the person Fakir's investigating..." Though he was a frail old man there was an edge to his eyes, evident even in the snapshot of him in daily life. Duck backed away from the pictures, feeling uncomfortable by the knowledge this was the person who ordered the murder she had witnessed. Looking away from the desk, Duck saw what she first thought was a cabinet, until she noticed the crank sticking out the side. It was a Victrola phonograph, and judging by the polish of the wood and the shinny brass handle it was by far the newest piece of furniture in the room. Duck bent down to admire the device as she had only seen the older horn-type models. Wondering what sort of music Fakir might listen to (an unpromising question, Duck grimaced, if she were to judge his tastes based on the contents of his stodgy bookshelf), she looked around her but didn't see any record cases laying around. Spotting an opened cardboard box beside the bookshelf, she wondered if the records might be kept there. Instead when Duck knelt down beside the box she found books, only unlike the law books on the shelf, these all appeared to be detective novels. "_The Moonstone_, _The Mystery of Marie Roget_..."* Duck could make out the titles of books at the top of the stack, all classical titles for their genre. That answered her question about Fakir's reading habits (and alleviated some concerns about his taste), and being a detective himself, detective stories seemed a logical favorite, Duck reasoned as she gingerly picked up one book. The novel's pages were yellowed and the edges worn and dog-eared. _He must've had these for a long time._ Duck opened the old novel and saw a line of writing on the inside of the cover.

"To our son, Fakir. Happy birthday."

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway. Duck shot up at the sound and on instinct, looked around frantically for a place to hide. There was the desk, but Fakir would find her as soon as he sat back down to work! Sweeping her eyes out the room, the space below the dinning table offered refuge. Duck started off for the dinning room, then realized she was still holding Fakir's book in her hand. Hurriedly putting it back in its box, she scrambled under the table cloth just as the door knob turned and Fakir, grumbling to himself, walked back in.

"The one time the water heater works the electricity goes out. If it's not one thing..." his voice faded into the bedroom she was perusing mere seconds ago. Duck lifted an edge of the table cloth to see Fakir standing with his back to her, a bath towel draped over his bare shoulders. Just as she looked out from her hiding place, lamenting the bind she had gotten herself into, Fakir reached up and pulled the towel away, revealing a wide swath of scar across his back. The brand stretched from his right shoulder, crossed the small of his back, and disappeared beneath the waistline of his drawstring pants. Even in the weak light of the apartment she could make out the contours of the scar. The scar tissue was taut and its pale color stood out against Fakir's tanned complexion despite having the appearance of having healed long ago. When he shifted to reach for the shirt left on the bed, Duck could see the scar covered his right shoulder as well as the back of his upper right arm. It was as if liquid flames had been doused across his back, leaving it horribly marked forever.

Duck winced and she abruptly retracted her hand from the table cloth, feeling at once disquieted and stunned by what she had inadvertently witnessed. _How did he get those scars?_ she wondered, but even as part of her pondered the possibilities she knew it must have been something terrible. Sitting on her knees, Duck lowered her raised hand to the floor and her finger tips came into contact with something smooth and cold. Duck looked down and the key that was the cause of her present predicament stared back at her from its hiding spot in the shadow of the table leg, which explained why she didn't spot it earlier during her initial search through the dining room. Relieved to have found her key at last, Duck was momentarily distracted from her thoughts on what she had just seen. She reached for the key but failed to notice the table leg in front of her. With a "thunk" she knocked her head against the wooden leg, drawing a sharp, involuntary "Ow!" from her throat.

Fakir jumped at the sudden noise. Reflexively, his hands went from the shirt he had been buttoning to the gun hidden under the pillow. Pointing the Colt revolver at the table, he cocked the gun and demanded firmly, "Whoever's there, come out with your hands up! _Now!_"

"It's me, it's me!" Duck lifted her hands out from under the table cloth and waved frantically before sticking her head out. "Fakir, it's just me!"

At the sight of Duck, Fakir lowered his gun and gasped at her. "What are you doing in my apartment?" The thought that followed had him tightening his grip around the weapon as he grew tense again, "Did something happen? Did you notice something suspicious?"

Hurriedly, Duck shook her head; the sight of the loaded gun only heightening her nervousness. "No! No-no! I-I just lost my key when the lights went out! I uh, accidentally kicked it under your door in the dark and when I knocked and you didn't answer I used the spare key to come in to look, but then you came back in and I panicked an-and I hid under the table!" Her trail of explanation ended abruptly as she didn't know what else to say to him. She tried to meet his eyes, but her eyes involuntarily drifted to the scar underneath his half-buttoned shirt. Duck abruptly turned around and groped for the front door knob. "B-but I've found it now! So I'll be going back then! Goodbye!" And with that she dashed out the apartment as fast as she could, jerking the door shut behind her.

Fakir sighed and took his finger off the trigger before putting the gun down on the desk. "Moron," he said with an exasperated shake of his head. But something about the way Duck looked before she sped out of his room gave Fakir pause. She was looking straight at him, he reflected, except not at his face, but at his torso. Fakir's hands clutched the front of his half-opened shirt shut; his eyes narrowed. _It doesn't matter, _he told himself resolutely before his fingers unclenched the fabric and returned to their task of buttoning up the shirt. _She doesn't know anything_.

* * *

Duck rushed back inside her apartment like a rabbit diving back into its burrow, nearly forgetting to pick up the letters she had left outside in the hallway. Once the door was closed, Duck buried her face in her palms and moaned into her hands. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I was staring so obviously, he must've noticed!_ Though she might be scatterbrained at times, Duck had enough sense to know a scar like that wasn't something someone would want others to see, and even though she had seen it unwittingly Duck couldn't help but feel guilty about it, particularly when she had stared at it so conspicuously before making her quick retreat. As her mood took a downhill spiral, a light music began to play, just audible above the background noise of the city. Duck removed her hands from her face, lifting her gaze to look out the window. The notes conjured a memory of a graceful figure dancing in a room walled by mirrors and lined by wooden barres. As a little girl with large blue eyes wide in wonder, she had watched the figure jump and twirl.

Duck's feet moved away from the door as she followed the musical trail to her bedroom window. Sliding the panel open, the young woman put her head out and a piano solo greeted her ears. Except, it was not played crisp and clear as on an instrument, but with the slight scratchiness of a phonograph.

Fakir sat by his window as the music trickled past him into the night. He had a towel draped over his shoulders and his elbow propped up on the sill as he smoked. At the sound of Duck opening her window he glanced at her and said disinterestedly, "What are you doing out here in the cold?"

Duck tensed. The awkwardness from earlier once again lifting its head and she fought back the urge to shut her window and hide behind her curtains. "I-you see...um, the music," she managed at last, "I was just reminded how...it sounds like the music my mother used to dance to."

With his eyes trained on the street below them, Fakir gave his cigarette a tap, letting the ash float down to the snow down below. "What was her name?"

Duck blinked several times in surprise, as she hadn't expected Fakir to respond, before answering, "Elsa."

Fakir blew a puff of smoke through his lips and raised his brows. "That's not a very Irish sounding name."

"My grandpa was German. He traveled throughout Europe, collecting folk stories and fairy tales, and ended up settling in Ireland where I was born." As she spoke Duck relaxed, and some of her usual indignation at Fakir's goading found its way back into her voice. "But it's not like your name sounds very Spanish-like either!"

"I am not Spanish," Fakir said curtly, "My family is Portuguese. There is a _big_ difference between the two."

"Oh..." Duck fell silent for a moment, then asked, "So what does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Your name: 'Fakir'. What does it mean?"

Fakir didn't answer, and Duck was starting to wonder if he wasn't going to when he said quietly, "It's an Arabic word; it means someone who has miraculous abilities."*

Duck's brows knotted together at his explanation. "But you just said you're Portuguese!"

"I am!" Fakir snapped exasperatedly.

"But you said your name is _Arabic_!"

Fakir heaved a long sigh and took a puff of his cigarette. When he spoke his voice was soft, softer than Duck had ever heard him before. "My mother gave me my name. She's Moorish, which means she's Arabic," Fakir clarified when he saw Duck's expression descending into confusion once again.

"Oh, I see..." Duck nodded in feigned comprehension. "But what does—"

Before Duck could continue with her question Fakir cut her off. "Aren't you cold? It's winter and you're letting the cold air into your apartment." He rubbed out the spent cigarette on the concrete sill. "Now go back inside before you catch a cold."

Duck stood there, agape at the sudden dismissal. Pointing her finger at him, she huffed, "You should talk! Your hair's still damp but you've been sitting out here longer than I have!"

"What I do is of no concern to you," Fakir answered dismissively.

But this time his imperious attitude failed to intimidate Duck. Taking a chair from her room, she sat down defiantly in front of her window and Fakir could do little more than glare at her. "Don't think just because you're a cop you can boss me around!" She folded her arms on the chilly sill and rested her chin in her arms. "And I want to listen to the music some more," she said more quietly, her voice muffled by her sleeves. "The song you're playing bring back memories of Ma when I was young."

Fakir showed no sign of moving from his spot either, and reached into his pocket and tapped out another cigarette. "Are they good memories?" He asked, striking a flame on the lighter.

Duck smiled at the gray but beautiful city, at the pedestrians traversing through the street below them, and at the music that buoyed her memories. "Yes, they are. Back then Ma worked at Mr. Kotin's pointe store during the day and taught ballet at the Crown Dance Studio at night. Before I was old enough to stay home by myself I would go to the studio after school and watch. Ma used to be a ballerina back in Ireland. She once played the lead role in a production of _Swan Lake_ and that's a role only a true prima donna can perform! Besides her skill she was also a really nice person, so all of her students loved her very much and really enjoyed her class. Ma also tried to teach me to dance, but I didn't have the talent she had." At this Duck chuckled and scratched her cheek sheepishly. "In fact I was so bad some of her students didn't believe I was her daughter at first. I can't blame them though. Even though I look a lot like Ma I'm her complete opposite. Some times I even wonder..." Duck uncharacteristically demurred before she continued in a small voice, "...I wonder, if it's because of me...that Ma stopped dancing professionally."

Fakir studied Duck but the young woman did not notice his eyes on her. "Why do you think that?"

Duck frowned. "I don't know. It's just...Ma was doing really well back in Europe. She was a budding young prima donna but retired when she had me." Duck's thoughts drifted to the signed photograph of her mother as Odette. "If she didn't have me, and if she hadn't passed away when she did...I'm sure she would be famous now. Because of me Ma gave up what she loved, gave up her future because of me."

_Because of me._

The thought quivered in Duck's heart, resonating with echoes of regret._ If Ma hadn't worked so hard to raise me she might not have gotten sick, and she would still be here today, smiling, dancing...living._

"You're thinking too much."

Duck looked up at Fakir, startled by his clear, certain tone. "How do you know that that's—"

This time she was once again cut off by Fakir, who shifted in his position by the window but kept his gaze tuned to the black-blue velvet night sky. "Parents love their children more than anything. If your mother gave up her career it must mean she loved you more than dance, that you were more important to her than fame."

Duck unfolded her arms and looked at the worn toe shoes and photographs sitting on the cabinet. The woman in the Odette costume was beautiful and graceful, but the woman Duck knew, the one who shared a warm smile and a gentle, steady embrace with her was the woman Duck knew as her mother. There was no question in Duck's mind that her mother loved her; that was a truth as solid as bedrock, as certain as the cycling seasons. Duck did not know if her mother would've have been happier had she continued with her career, but what the young woman _did_ know was that her mother was happy and Duck was happy.

The music on the phonograph wound to a stop, leaving only the skipping noise of the stylus running on the edge of the record. Fakir stirred and left his window side perch. "Well, that's it. Or do you intend to keep sitting there and catch pneumonia?"

Duck shuffled the chair back and sat up reluctantly, but her eyes were bright and clear again as she said, "Fine, I'm going, I'm going. Still," she faced Fakir and smiled sincerely, "I really enjoyed the music. It was nice listening to the Victrola."

Fakir, who was in the process of closing his window, stopped and looked at Duck askance. "Wait, how do you know the phonograph is a Victrola?"

Duck froze as she realized she had just given herself away. "Oh! I-I guessed!" She laughed nervously. "T-they're pretty popular, so I thought may-maybe that's the model you have!"

Fakir looked at her darkly and Duck felt herself beginning to sweat despite the cold air. At last Fakir dismissed the matter and shrugged. In a gruff voice, he muttered "Good night," and closed his window.

"Good night!" Duck squawked. Behind her the dinning room light blinked several times before turning back on and the darkness in the apartment beat a hasty retreat. By now the cold had edged its frosty tendrils throughout her apartment and Duck moved quickly to close her window. She paused and gave Fakir's window one last look. Duck decided despite his prickly nature it seemed Fakir wasn't such a bad person after all. Smiling, she pulled the pane down and drew the curtains on this eventful evening.

* * *

The following Sunday morning was crisp and cool. A lone figure approached 1750 Lake Avenue, stopping just short of the steps. Dressed in a woolen coat and hat, a leather brief case in hand, the young man adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose as he cast critical violet eyes over the building's aged brick facade. Retrieving a crisply folded note from his coat pocket, the bespectacled young man read out, "Fakir Romeiras, apartment 514, 1750 Lake Ave." Having double checked the address, a sparkle entered the young man's eyes, not altogether from the reflected light of the raising sun, as he smiled and ascended the steps into the apartment building.

* * *

A/N *_The Moonstone_ and _The Mystery of Marie Roget_ are mystery novels from the mid 19th century, written by Wilkie Collins and Edgar Allan Poe, respectively.

The meaning Fakir gave is the technical definition of his name, as a "fakir" is a mystic who can perform magic and feats of endurance. I know Ikuko Itoh said she gave Fakir that name because she felt it sounded mysterious, and in the context of the series it is a fitting name for someone who can miraculously turn stories into reality. Here though, I admit making Fakir Moorish-Portuguese-American is a bit of a stretch (the word "fakir" in English usually refer to Indian ascetics, and the Moors were expelled from Portugal over the course of many centuries) but the word is Arabic in origin, and there is the possibility that small communities of Moorish traders settled back in Portugal after the Reconquista. Thus, I plead my case!

Once again, much thanks to HaleySings for betaing!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A series of precisely spaced knocks interrupted Fakir's otherwise peaceful morning. Lethargically, Fakir went to the door and undid the deadbolt.

"My name is Autor Brahms, I'm—" the bespectacled young man at the door began, but with scarcely a glance at him Fakir was already closing the door.

"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested."

Autor was taken aback for a second before he found his voice and spoke indignantly, "I am a journalist! Not a traveling salesman!"

Fakir's hand paused, peering at him from behind the half-opened door. "So?"

With a clear look of displeasure at Fakir's dismissive attitude, Autor composed himself and said, "I am here to talk to you about an important matter."

"And just how important is this for it to be worth my Sunday morning?"

At the question, Autor smiled. "I am here to talk to you about Domenico Corvo."

Fakir looked hard at Autor, measuring the newsman with his sharp green eyes before finally stepping aside and allowed him in. Once inside Fakir wordlessly gestured for him to sit down by the small dining room table. Autor removed his hat, and undid his scarf and gloves before placing them, along with his brief case, on the plain table. Fakir grabbed a chair across from him and sat down, eyes still locked on this stranger. Noticing his gaze, Autor scoffed. "No water for your guest?"

"An uninvited guest is not a guest," Fakir answered pointedly.

Autor shrugged and reached for his brief case. "Very well." He undid the clasps of the case and took out a thick envelope. Fakir watched as Autor spread the contents out on the table. There were pages of newspaper clippings, notes, and photographs; all organized together with the meticulous organization of a professional clerk. "Don't you find it ironic?" the bespectacled man said conversationally, "The Volstead Act that was meant to rescue mankind from the corruption of alcohol gave rise to the organized criminal enterprises that now plagues this country and continues to contribute to the delinquency of its citizens?" Autor sifted through the top of the documents and laid out several sheets on the table.

"40 years ago a man named Domenico Corvo came to Bronx from his native Sicily. A very business-minded and brilliant man, when the old city of Bronx was annexed into New York City, Domenico saw an opportunity in the real estate business and carved out an empire for himself.* However, he also had another 'business' on the side." Autor took out a yellowed newspaper clipping with the bold headline: "Three Unidentified Bodies Found in Hudson".

"When Domenico came to New York he did not forget his connection to the old world. He employed some of his fellow countrymen as agents who would extort protection money from businesses operating in his new territory, and pretty soon he had a piece in every shady business on this side of the river. But his empire really took off at the start of Prohibition and he became involved in smuggling and operating speakeasies, and there are rumors he's also getting a cut of the illicit drug market. He lives a secluded life as one of the city's elite, appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances, and is a well known patron of the arts. Even so, he still maintains an iron grip over his kingdom. Anyone who dares to cross him find himself buried six feet under—alive, sometimes—and his underlings are absolutely loyal to him, be it out of fear or admiration."

Autor looked up and the surprise in Fakir's eyes brought a satisfied smirk to Autor's face. "How—" Fakir paused, thought better of his question, then continued, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"As I told you, I am a journalist. I'm writing an exposé on Domenico Corvo. He's very clever, and gathering just the information I'm showing you now has taken me many months of work. No one has any concrete proof that links Corvo to any of his deeds. But being a journalist rather than a member of law enforcement, certain information is off limits to me." Autor's confident demeanor faltered for a moment when he frowned. "I know the police are interested in him as well and that you people too are having a difficult time finding evidence to convict him with. This is only a fraction of the information I've gathered on him and I'm willing to share the rest if you—and the police—would be willing to share what you know with me."

Fakir was silently impressed with what he saw before him. Both the organization and breadth of Autor's collection was impressive, and from the newspaper clippings there were a few cases possibly connected to Corvo that the police had overlooked.

But like Autor himself had admitted, the envelope's contents were correlative at best, suggesting possible links but insubstantial enough that none of it would stand up in court. In Fakir's own investigation he had found a few interesting leads on the financial side of things, but that part of his work had been slow as a large portion of Domenico Corvo's assets was overseas and the police were still in the process of negotiating with the appropriate foreign agencies to gain access to the records.

Both Fakir and Autor must tread carefully however, as any false move on their part would alert the mob and their efforts would be in vain. Bringing their investigation to light before they've gathered sufficient evidence was akin to shooting oneself in the foot. More than that—it was suicidal.

This was both reckless and foolish, Fakir determined. If the mob caught wind of the exposé project Autor might find himself making the front page of his own newspaper one day. Better to have him put this idea out of his head before he got into trouble.

"Most of the information you have here is redundant," Fakir leaned back into his chair to appear uninterested. "It's true that we don't have a strong case against them right now, and it will take months—if not years—for the investigation to pan out and build a solid case against them. Publishing a story now with half-baked evidence will convince no one, and you'll only make a fool of yourself. You also do realize that by putting this story out there you are setting yourself up as an enemy of Domenico Corvo. I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous this man is from the collection you have amassed here," Fakir tapped the documents.

Autor's lips drew thin, then swallowing his pride, argued, "The investigation is on going. I understand that this will take time but don't you think we can speed up the process if we join our resources? Together we can bring this villain to justice a lot faster than either of us could alone!"

"Like I already said, your information is redundant." His patience wearing thin, Fakir's voice rose. "What use do we have for things we already know? It's better to content yourself with another story; there must be plenty of other sordid tales in this city for you to write about."

Autor flinched and his expression was as if he had been slapped. "I see...that's how it is, is it?" He scrapped his chair back sharply and stood with violet eyes burning. "The police want to keep the glory for themselves, and so they leave the rest of us in an ignorance far more frightening than darkness itself."

The journalist gathered his papers and with narrowly controlled anger, shoved them back into the envelope and gathered the rest of his belongings. Fakir did not bother to stand and open the door for him as Autor turned his back to the detective, slamming the door loudly on his way out.

As Autor stormed out into the hallway he nearly collided with a brunette haired woman. Hurriedly stepping out of his way, she raised one gloved hand to hail him. "Excuse me, but could you tell me—" But Autor walked on toward the stairs without so much as a glance back, and she looked down at the slip of yellow notebook paper in her hand.

Walking up to Duck's door, she knocked and when Duck appeared by her door seconds later the woman asked, "Excuse me, but I was wondering if you know where I could find Fakir Rameiras."

Autor paused at the top of the stairs and looked back at the woman and Duck, the edge of the stairwell shielding him from their sight as he listened. "I was told he lives at this address," the woman continued, "but I must've written down the wrong apartment number because I don't see a 524 here."

"Oh! Fakir lives right next door," Duck walked out to guide the woman to Fakir's door. "I think he's home right now because I thought I heard him earlier," she said and knocked.

Her knuckles have barely tapped the door before it swung open and Fakir barked, "What do you want now? Didn't I make it clear to you that—!"

Stunned and affronted by the unexpectedly tirade, Duck shouted back. "What's gotten you all worked up this morning? It seems like every time I talk to you you're always rude, or loud, or both!"

When Duck didn't hear a retort from her usually contentious neighbor, she noticed Fakir staring past her at the woman in the hallway.

"Hello Fakir, it's been a while."

Fakir looked away, one hand in his pocket while the other mussed with his hair. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

The corners of Rachel's mouth curled playfully. "To see you of course, silly."

Fakir groaned and Duck heard him mutter, "The one day I get a break, the world comes to my door step."

Pushing the door open fully, Fakir tilted his head to the interior of his apartment. "Come in. You won't mind drinking coffee out of a cracked mug, would you?"

"A cracked mug?" Duck said, aghast. "You can't let a guest drink out of a cracked mug! Don't you have any other cups?"

"No, I don't, and the sole reason it's cracked to begin with is because a certain _someone_ dashed off without telling me and made me chase after her when I was having my morning coffee!"

It took a few seconds for Duck to realize what Fakir was referring to and she lowered her head sheepishly. "I'll bring over some cups for you to use then, if you don't mind that is," Duck mumbled, with the last phrase directed at Rachel, who had been watching their exchange with a half concealed expression of surprise and amusement.

"Not at all. That's very kind of you, Miss..."

"Oh! My name is Duck."

To Duck's great relief Rachel's eyebrows didn't shoot up in bewilderment as others have, wondering if this was a pathetic joke or what could have inspired someone to name a girl after poultry. Nonetheless, Duck decided it was time to take her leave. After all, for this lady to speak so casually to Fakir they had to be close...maybe she was his girlfriend, and Duck felt awkward being the third wheel in their conversation.

"I'll bring them right now; give me just a moment!" She turned to go, but Rachel stopped her.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could join us, Duck."

Rachel's request surprised both Duck and Fakir, and Duck waved her hands about as a flush crept onto her cheeks. "Oh no! I-I don't want to intrude on your conversation!"

"On the contrary." Rachel smiled mysteriously, her amethyst eyes twinkling as she shifted her gaze from Duck to Fakir. "In fact I have something I would like to talk to both of you about."

As the group's conversation moved into Fakir's apartment, Autor's departure from his listening post went undetected.

* * *

Duck placed a cup of coffee before Rachel who nodded her thanks. Picking up her bone china cup, painted with intertwined peonies and rose buds, Rachel took a sip of the steaming hot liquid, hiding a smile behind her cup as she watched Fakir look down at the dainty porcelain dishware Duck placed in front of him with thinly masked chagrin. Evidently this wasn't what Fakir was expecting when Duck offered to bring drinking vessels.

Once Duck sat down with her own cup of coffee, Rachel said to the red haired girl, "How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Rachel, Fakir's cousin."

Duck had to make an effort not to gape. She hadn't expected someone related to Fakir to be so affable, so _polite_, and the shop girl now noticed the gold band on Rachel's left ring finger which had previously been concealed by a glove. This revelation only made Duck blush at her previous assumption about their relationship. "Ah! I-I mean-! I didn't know Fakir you had family here in New York," she looked to her neighbor who merely huffed.

"You should've told us you moved; it would've saved my feet from a lot of walking yesterday," Rachel reprimanded gently.

"I have a lot of cases on my hands, and I forgot," Fakir sighed, "but what about yourself? I thought you were busy rehearsing for your new gig at the Met."

"That's exactly what I've come to see you about." Rachel placed her cup on its saucer. "The theater is producing _The Bartered Bride_ this season and this will be my first role as the leading soprano. On opening night there's going to be a large reception party to celebrate the performance and cast member may bring their own guests to the reception. Hans, my husband, will be coming of course, but I was hoping you—and Duck— would come as well."

Duck's eyes widened. "Me too?"

Rachel nodded affirmatively, and Duck still could not quite believe herself. "You are Fakir's friend and I would be so glad if you could attend."

Duck opened her mouth to clarify, but before she could make out the first word Fakir interjected. "Rachel, I have a pile of cases on my desk and new ones coming in almost every other day. I really don't think I can make it. If you really want me to hear it I can tune in to the radio."

"Fakir," Rachel made a reproachful face, "that's not the same as listening to an opera in concert. And besides," her expression softened, "it's only one evening. I know you're not particularly partial to opera but this performance means a lot to me. Won't you indulge me this one time? Surly you can set aside one evening for this."

Fakir fidgeted uncomfortably and seeing him wavering, Rachel added, "Our sponsors and board members will be there and they've also invited the mayor and the police commissioner to the event. It might be good for you to meet some of these people. And I think—"

"Board members?" Fakir started. _Wait a minute, _his mind raced to something Autor had said earlier in the day. _"...Appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances, __and is a well known patron of the arts__." _

He had nearly forgotten that Dominico Corvo was a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors, a position the old man had achieved more for his infusion of money than any artistic sense he brought to the company. While Corvo was not an artist or a musician he had a thorough understanding of the prestige and connections that came with swimming within that circle. If this event was as Rachel suggested it to be and if there was to be a great deal of important people present, then just maybe...

When Fakir looked up sharply he announced, to the surprise of the others at the table, "Never mind what I said earlier; I'll ask the captain for a day off and we'll be there."

Before Duck could process the word "we" in his sentence, Fakir turned to her. "Do you have an evening gown?"

Duck just blinked at him, which was answer enough for the detective. He turned back to Rachel. "Do you think you could help her with getting a dress for the event? She'll be coming with me."

Duck's jaw dropped. Rachel was equally shocked by her cousin's sudden intent to participate in the event, but managed to say, "Oh. Well, yes, sure. But shouldn't you ask if Duck would be coming first?"

"Exactly! I didn't even say I was going yet!" Despite her outrage, Duck found her face turning fretfully from pink to scarlet. The idea of attending a beautiful opera was certainly enticing, but the thought of having to mingle with the rich and famous was too much for a simple shop girl like Duck. She had no idea how to act and what to say in front of these people and here Fakir was, ready to thrust her in their midst without so much as asking for her opinion.

Abruptly, Fakir grabbed her wrist and the tea pot-cum-coffee pot, and with a terse, "The coffee's getting cold. We'll make some more; wait here," to Rachel, disappeared into the small adjoining kitchen before his bewildered cousin could protest that the coffee was still warm, or why it would require two people to make the beverage.

Once Duck's foot was inside the small room, Fakir bumped the door close to keep their voices to themselves. But Duck did not care about what he was trying to do in the least. By now the red haired girl was absolutely furious and yanked her hand from his grip as soon as she set foot on the tiled floor.

"What are you doing! First you say you _don't_ want to go, now you all of a sudden _want_ to go and want to drag me along _with you_!"

"Shhh!" Fakir whispered sharply. "She'll hear you!" Remembering Rachel's presence, Duck lowered her voice but she continued to glare daggers at Fakir, who ignored her glower and set the tea pot down before reaching for the kettle on the stove.

"What is this all about anyway? Why can't we say this in front of Rachel?"

Speaking over the sound of running water filling the kettle, Fakir explained, "Dominico Corvo is a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors. If this performance is as Rachel says it is chances are he'll be coming to the opera and the party." He turned the faucet off and looked at Duck, "And that means it's possible that Principe will be there as well."

The anger fled Duck's voice, replaced by a quiver of uncertainty. "You mean you want me to identify him there? At the party?"

"It's a long shot," Fakir admitted. "But it's the only thing resembling a chance that we have right now."

Duck grimaced. She did want to go, not for the celebrities or the glitz and glamour, but for the performance; for a chance to see something beautiful and wonderful, something she would not be able to afford without this invitation.

Yet the edge of apprehension dogged her still despite her eagerness to take Rachel on her offer. Ever since the proposition of identifying the man they knew as Principe had been set before her, Duck had been torn by the thought of coming face to face with that person again. After all, he had supervised the murder of a man in cold blood, and yet...

Duck drew her hands to her chest. When she caught a glimpse of him at the parade her feet had chased after him, all for another look at the elusive eyes always hidden from her from the gloom of a dimly lit ally or behind the brim of a hat. Maybe that's why she couldn't get the thought of him out of her mind. The need to know whether this beautiful man, whose appearance was as princely as his name suggested, has the eyes of a man or a beast. It was the possibility of the latter that frightened Duck, and yet she still wanted to know. And this was her chance.

"I..."

Fakir turned to look at Duck, her hands playing nervously with a loose thread on her blouse.

"I'll go...I said I'll go, so I will!"

At the last word Duck's eyes shot up, startling Fakir. He had expected to cajole, goad, and bully her into going along with his plan. Instead she had surprised him with her assertive answer. He wanted to remind her of the potential dangers, how with one ill-phrased question she could expose her identity to Principe, to the mob, which Fakir was sure would have a presence at the event, albeit in the shadows. Of course, this was assuming they didn't know about her already. Maybe it would be better to call this off; a plan based on a hunch and good luck wasn't worth risking your star witness on. But the determination in Duck's voice told Fakir she had made up her mind, and if he had learned anything about this girl in the past weeks it was her tenacity.

There was something else too, something that had been bothering Fakir. The silhouette of a boy kept emerging from the depth of his memory and try as he might to dismiss the thought the unsettling feeling would not go away. More than identifying his suspect, a part of Fakir acknowledged that seeing the true face of Principe would put his mind at ease.

"Good," Fakir said over the whistling kettle which he took off the stove. "Make sure to wear something appropriate but low-key for the event. You need to keep your eyes open but others must see you without noticing you."

"Um, what do you mean by appropriate?" In Duck's mind opera conjured images of men in perfectly pressed suits, top hats and monocles, accompanied by women with fur boas and silk gowns. Somehow she couldn't envision herself walking around with a dead seal's pelt wrapped around her neck.

A cloud of steam rose up from the counter as Fakir went about the task of brewing the coffee. "An evening gown of some sort, but Rachel will help you with that."

"What about you?"

"I have a tailcoat from Rachel's wedding. It hasn't been worn in years and will need to be cleaned, but other than that there shouldn't be a problem on my end." He picked up the coffee laden tea pot and paused at the kitchen door.

Seeing Fakir with the floral teapot in hand almost made Duck laugh, but she choked it back when she saw the dead-serious look in his eyes. "Remember: she mustn't know about the real reason for our plans. The less people that get involved in this the better."

Duck gave a firm nod at his severe warning. She knew what Fakir was really trying to say was, _I don't want _her_ to get involved in this_, and Duck could sympathize with his concern.

When the kitchen door opened and Duck returned with Fakir to the dining room, Rachel looked up from her hands on the table. She raised her brows but said with a smile, "You really didn't have to make more coffee; there was plenty left in the pot still."

Fakir cleared his throat and picked up the thread of their conversation and said, "Yes, well…as I was saying, do you know a friend who might be able to lend her a dress for the party or anything?" He tilted his head at Duck. "We talked about it, and she's decided to come."

Rachel giggled at Fakir's awkwardness. "So that's what you two were chatting about behind that door! Do you have anything particular in mind, Duck?"

"A-anything's fine!" Duck sat up sharply in her chair and stammered. "I mean, I've never been to a large party and truth to tell, I'm a little embarrassed being around so many important people and I'd prefer not to stand out in a crowd…"

"What a pity. Because I don't think you would look out of place at all, and you have such a nice figure." Duck blushed again at the compliment as Rachel considered the younger woman's request. "If it's something unobtrusive you want, in that case I think I might have something for you. It's an older dress that I have and the hemline will need to be adjusted, but it has a simple, elegant design and I think will look very flattering on you without making you stand out too much in a crowd, if that's what you're concerned about."

Relieved she wouldn't have to walk around with a dead animal's coat around her neck, Duck nodded. "Uh, yes, that would be great."

After further discussion, Duck agreed to meet Rachel to pick up the dress in a few days at the opera singer's home and a time was set for Fakir and Duck to be picked up for the performance. With the coffee in her cup truly cool by then, Rachel looked at her watch. "It's almost 12; I have to attend a dress rehearsal this afternoon so I'm afraid I have to go." Rising from her seat, Rachel smiled at Duck. "Thank you again Duck, for the coffee; it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Me too, I'm really glad to meet you as well," Duck replied sincerely.

At the door Rachel paused, reached out to clasped Fakir's arm, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I will see you at the concert, Fakir. Take care of yourself, mm?"

Fakir grunted and said, "I'll be fine."

Rachel shook her head and chuckled before bidding them good bye one last time and took her leave. Fakir and Duck watched from his doorway until Rachel's figure had disappeared down the stairwell.

"Rachel is a really nice person; I like her a lot." Duck said smiling to herself, and looked up at her neighbor.

Fakir gave a small snort, but by the upward tug on the corner of his lips, Duck thought he too agreed with her feelings on the teasing but loving opera singer.

* * *

"You're going?" Rue turned sharply from her seat on the settee. "What if a reporter takes your picture and that witness recognizes you from a newspaper? You'll be identified!"

Mytho gave a light shrug of his shoulders. Dressed in a dressing gown, he glanced back at Rue while his hand swirled the glass of illicit Scotch. "I want to make up for missing the party with you last time. I thought you'd be happy if we went to the party with Father."

Rue was aghast by Mytho's nonchalance to his present jeopardy. When she learned that a witness was present during Mytho's last hit job the anxiety she had been keeping bottled up inside her had exploded like an uncorked Champagne. Trying to give her nervous hands something to do, Rue reach for a cigarette and went about the ritual of lighting it on her ivory cigarette holder. "You can make it up some other time," the young actress said in a tight but controlled voice, "but we'll skip the party at the Met. There are too many people there and the risk is too great."

With his back to her, Rue heard Mytho chuckle as he said, "Ah, so you intend to hide me in the dark then." He laughed again, this time it made Rue look up at him as the sound sent a quiver down her back. "But that's what you wanted to do from the beginning: lock me in the darkness with you."

"What are you talking about?" Rue demanded snappishly.

The ice in Mytho's glass chinked as he raised it to his eyes to study the amber liquid. "Back when I first found out about Father's line of business I wanted to leave, but you convinced me to stay. Do you remember that night?"

Of course she remembered, Rue thought to herself and took a short puff of her cigarette. Mytho started out doing innocuous tasks like counting the number of crates delivered to a warehouse or helping to unload packages. The Corvo family usually hired unemployed, uneducated young men for these tasks, but through his daughter Don Corvo picked up on Mytho's diligence and intelligence. After two years Mytho found himself promoted from being a porter to being a courier, accompanying the goods his employer dealt in and making sure they reached the right hands. It was around that time that the Volstead Act was passed and Rue's father decided to extend his business ventures. It was also at that time that Mytho finally learned what was inside the crates he had been shuttling.

That night Rue had found him at the door to her house, looking nervous and worried, not unlike how she felt now, she thought ironically. After ushering him to the sitting room and dismissing the maid for the day, Rue had sat down next to him and exclaimed, "Mytho what's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost!" she slipped her hand over his but he refused to look at her.

"Rue…when you asked me to work for your father, did you know what exactly his business involves?"

At this question Rue froze, but she trained herself to relax and put on an innocent expression. "Of course I do. Daddy imports fancy things, like silk carpets from Asia and glass from France. I've told you this before haven't I?"

Mytho shifted uneasily in his seat. "Bobby and I were unloading some crates from the dock today when one accidentally tipped over. One side of the crate split open and when we went to survey the damage we saw several broken bottles inside, the liquid inside them had leaked all over the floor. Bobby said it smelled like whisky, and although I couldn't tell if that's what it was, I could tell it was some sort of alcohol. Our overseer then found us and told us not to tell anyone about the contents, or else he'd—"

"Oh, it was just a little accident, no need to get worried about it." Rue interjected. She reached out to touch his hair. "I'll tell Daddy this wasn't your fault and make sure no one will ever yell at you again."

Mytho shook his head and pulled away from Rue's hand. "That's not the issue, Rue! Selling alcohol is illegal now. What we're doing is breaking the law!"

"Daddy has been importing spirits and wines for years now. He can't just tell his old customers that he's all up and done with them just because a bunch of old women made a fuss and the government passed some silly law*," the heiress replied coolly.

Mytho said nothing for a long moment but his expression was grim. At last, he said quietly, "I don't know, Rue. This whole business…it makes me feel uneasy. Maybe I should leave and go find work somewhere else."

"And where would you go? What would you do?"

"I…I'll look around. New York is a big city and there are plenty of places looking for people to hire. I might even try going back to the studio and start dancing again; I don't want those years to go to waste."

"But the whole reason why you came to work here was because you couldn't find work else where, remember?"

"I knew someone at the studio; maybe she could help me…"

Rue scooted closer to him and cupping his cheeks with her hands, gently but firmly forced him to look at her. "Mytho, do you really want to leave me?"

Surprised by her questions, Mytho shook his head. "No, I don't. But what your father's doing—even if it's out of deference to old customers—is still wrong. I just can't…"

"You have no place to go, you have nothing here in this city. If you leave you will leave everything you've gained behind."

Looking into his eyes she saw the apprehension there, from both her words and from what he had learned that day. Seizing that vulnerable feeling in her hands, she knew she could use it to turn him around. "If you stay here with me you won't have to worry about where to go, how many dollars you'll have in your pockets, or where your next hot meal will come from. This job may be rough now, but Daddy just wants to see what you are capable of so he'll be able to put you to a task you're really suited for, and before you know it all these concerns will be behind you, nothing more than memories."

She reached up and kissed Mytho and the sweet scent of her perfume wafted over him. Breaking the kiss, their faces inches from another, Rue whispered, "We can keep this a secret; no one has to know any of this. So stay with me and don't go anywhere."

Mytho was torn, but at last he gave a small nod.

Back then Rue had smiled, her triumph glowing on her face as she embraced him. Now years later she felt herself embraced by a pair of arms and startled her out of her recollection.

"You were right, Rue. At that time I had nothing. You were the only one I had and so I stayed in the darkness with you. But I don't intend to stay here forever."

Mytho's arms fell away from her, leaving an empty gap between them. "I won't let anything nor anyone hold me back, even if it's you, Rue."

"But I gave you everything that you have!" Rue stood up, her face a storm of horror, anger, and despair. "I gave you my love; my heart. Are you going to abandon me now?"

"I won't abandon you." Mytho picked up her hand and gently kissed the pale knuckles. "After all, the blood on my hands, too, was given to me by you."

The house was still; the only noise was the faint sluggish chug from a boat as it worked its way up the river. It was a fragile silence, and Rue was afraid that by breaking it her world too would break. But it had to be done. She had to know.

"Do you resent me for that?"

"No." Mytho planted a chaste kiss on her ashen cheek. "In fact I am grateful to you. Because it was here in the darkness that I found things I would never have found in the light."

* * *

A/N After five months of inactivity (due to the nasty juxtaposition of writer's block and a deluge of projects at work) I'm back! And yes, I know, yet another chapter where nothing really happens. But rest assure, more revelations await in the future. Now for some notes:

* The Bronx effectively became a borough of New York City in 1898. Previously it was a rural area but underwent modernization in the late 19th century and experienced a rapid growth in population in the first three decades of the 20th century.

* The Volstead Act (which defined the terms of the now repealed 18th Amendment) was passed in 1920. The Women's Christian Temperance Union was an important organization that promoted prohibition, and whose members were exclusively female in the early 20th century. Thus Rue's comment about "fussing old women".

I named Autor after the German composer, Johannes Brahms. Brahms is known for being a perfectionist and I can definitely see Autor as one too, seeing that he made an exact replica of Drosselmeyer's study in the anime. You might also be wondering why I'm using "Rachel" for Raetsel's name. Well, there is a reason for that, and if all goes according to plan I'll explain that in more detail in the next chapter. ;)

Many thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The New York Public Library was like a second home for Autor. He had spent countless hours there reading and researching, gathering the knowledge he had amassed like a tree builds rings around its trunk, growing stronger and more confident with each passing day. But the soft pulpy wood of a young tree is fragile and Autor knew his research would not stand up to the media storm that would surely follow if he unveiled his findings now. He needed stronger evidence, more physical proof that the common sordid thread tying his collection of newspaper clippings together was in fact, the truth.

He had gone to Fakir, a detective—an undeserving title, Autor's mind interjected bitterly—in the hopes of joining forces. Instead he had been humiliated and belittled, his work dubbed as "correlative at best" when Autor knew it was so much more significant than that. However, his anger did not change his present dilemma, that of the lack of more supportive evidence. It did not help that, short of showing up at the police captain's door steps, Fakir was the only police officer with enough knowledge of the Corvo case to be of any help to him without attracting too much attention to Autor himself. But that bridge had now been burned, and after parting on less than friendly terms Autor was not keen on speaking to Fakir ever again.

Sitting in one of the large reading rooms, nearly empty at such a late hour, Autor tapped his pen against the hard wood of the table. Normally such repetitive noise would distract him from his work, but now he sat staring blankly at the sheets of clippings. He'd spent the day thinking of other options but had come up dry. The bespectacled journalist turned his thoughts to Fakir again and to the conversation he had overheard after recognizing the voice of the woman who had tried to hail him in the hallway.

Autor was certain had he been any more incensed, he would have never recognized her voice at all. Autor had been raised in a family of music lovers and although his current passion was for journalism, he would still attend the occasional symphony or opera on his own time when his schedule allowed, as well cover particularly important performances for the news agency he worked for. The voice of up-and-coming prima donna Rachel Strauss was therefore not unfamiliar to him, but never did he imagine he would hear that voice in the hallway of a rundown tenement building! Only when he heard her speak again, this time to Fakir's neighbor, did he do a double-take. Curious as to what brought the talented soprano to this part of the Bronx, Autor was surprised to hear her seeking the whereabouts of the man whose apartment he had just stormed out of. However, other than demonstrating her closeness to Fakir, her conversation failed to illuminate the reason for her visit. It was only after Autor paid a visit to the public records where he uncovered the singer's maiden name and checked the last programme he had retained from the Met did the mystery unravel.

But so what if the singer had invited her cousin to her imminent performance? It was an ordinary enough thing to do, and other than a curious coincidence the knowledge was useless to Autor. Breathing a deep sigh and absently pushing up his glasses, Autor decided there was no use sitting here, nursing his frustration. He picked up his pen and tucked it away in his suit pocket before putting the stack of material back into its envelope. Perhaps he was tired, since it was quite late, but as he moved to put the envelope away the packet slipped from his hand and the contents spilled out across the floor with a dull, fluttering, "flop".

Autor quickly bent down to pick up the documents, and exasperated as he was, he made sure to check each and every page to make sure nothing was wrinkled or torn from the fall. As he rearranged his collection back in order, Autor's gaze fell on a yellowed piece of news clipping and a familiar word caught his eye. The clipping was a small square of slightly smudged newsprint, and did not differ much from the others on the paper it was affixed to. But Autor examined it closely, reading and rereading the short article once, then twice, and for good measure, thrice.

At last he stood and looked at the title, which read in faded ink, "Victims of Double Homicide Identified".

* * *

A cold breeze was blowing, kicking up little whirls of snow that had fallen the night before. Duck rubbed her mittened hands together, her breath turning into a gray fog each time she exhaled into the frigid air as she walked up to an apartment building dusted with a coating of snow.

Rachel was already waiting for her, and as Duck bound up the steps the tall brunette opened the building door for Duck.

"Hello Duck," Rachel smiled and closed the door—and the cold—behind the smaller woman. "How have you been?"

"Good! How about yourself? Were you busy with rehearsals?"

"Fine, but busy as you said," Rachel chuckled as she lead Duck up to the second floor apartment she shared with her husband. "We had a bit of a scare last week when Thomas, our baritone, caught a cold. Luckily his doctor prescribed some tonic and now he's right as rain again."

"That's good." Duck smiled politely and walked into the older woman's sitting room. It was immediately apparent that Rachel's apartment was infinitely nicer than her own, as the building itself looked several decades newer and the interior was spacious and warm despite the bleak weather.

While Duck admired the décor her hands moved to remove the double layer of coats she wore. Rachel stepped into the hallway and turned to her guest, "I'll go make us some hot drinks. What would you like, dear? Coffee, hot cocoa, or tea?"

Duck looked up sharply and waved her hands. "Oh, I don't want to take up your time since you're busy!"

"There's no rehearsal today, and I practice in the afternoon so we have plenty of time." Rachel winked at her.

"Ah, I'll have the cocoa then, if you don't mind." Duck smiled at her hostess, a little embarrassed.

"No problem at all! Sit down; I'll be back in a moment." Rachel laughed in a light, lovely tone and Duck thought to herself how much she looked forward to hearing that beautiful voice sing at the opera.

Minutes later Duck was seated beside Rachel in the plush sofa, sipping hot cocoa and nibbling on the fresh pastel de nata Rachel had prepared beforehand. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Rachel touched the corner of her mouth with her napkin and said, "I know you must be excited to see the dress. I'll go get it now so you can try it on."

"Mm!" Duck swallowed the pastry in her mouth and hurriedly dusted her hands on her skirt. "Sure!"

With her hostess in the lead, Duck walked into an unused guest room. On the bed was a dress box and Duck's breath caught when Rachel removed the lid and lifted the dress from its bedding of tissue paper.

The gown was made of chiffon the color of ripe apricot. On the left breast was a peony, sewn from the same sheer material, with strings of crystal beading hanging from below the blossom. The bottom of the dress was ruffled and a narrow band of delicate bead work circled above the swooshing folds. Duck had never seen something so beautiful before, and the thought that this was the dress she was going to put on felt surreal.

Rachel laid the dress on the mattress and turned to her guest. "Would you like me to help you put it on, or do you think you can manage by yourself?"

"Oh!" Blinking out of her trance, Duck squawked, "Ah-I'll be okay!"

"Alright, call me if you need help with anything," Rachel nodded before she retreated from the room.

"I will! Thank you!" Duck shouted back. Once the door was closed she reached out, carefully lifted up the dress to examine it more closely. The tiny crystal beads felt cool against her fingers and Duck marveled at the weight and shine of the fabric. A grin bloomed over Duck's face as she set down the gown and went about shedding her tweed skirt and worn blouse before pulling the dress over her head, fumbling for a few minutes with the buttons. Turning to inspect herself in the oval mirror, twirling around and watching the dress swirl with her movement, Duck let out a laugh of unbridled delight.

A brief knock came from the door as Rachel let herself back into the room. Seeing Duck's expression, she smiled. "You like it?"

"Oh I love it!" Duck beamed. "This is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. Thank you so much Rachel!"

"Haha, you're welcome. I was a little worried the beading might be a little too much and whether the tailor could adjust the hemline despite the ruffles, but in the end I think it all worked out quite well. In fact," Rachel stepped back, tipping her head to one side and studied the effect of the dress on Duck, "...if you really like the dress, you can keep it if you would like."

Flabbergasted and speechless Duck had to make a conscious effort to close her jaws together before she gasped, "What-but-ah, are you sure?"

"It suits you, and Fakir mentioned you didn't have a gown. With this one you won't have to worry about what to wear for future formal events."

Duck doubted she'd ever attend another event where formal wear was required, but to actually own this dress was more than she could ever ask for. Duck's mouth drew into a broad grin. She turned to Rachel, the gown flowing with her as she moved, and in a voice of unabashed delight, hugged Rachel, "Oh thank you so, so much Rachel! I'll cherish it, I promise!"

Rachel laughed along with Duck. "You're welcome! Ah, we should also try to do something with your hair while you're here." She touched Duck's long braid which had come to rest over the girl's shoulder. "Girls now a day prefer their hairs short but I myself find long hair to be far more elegant."

"You think so?" Duck knew her hair style—and her wardrobe in general—was outdated, but Rachel's earlier compliments made Duck wonder if maybe she could do this gown justice and dress, if not as a movie star or a princess, at least like a proper lady when she walked into the opera house on opening night.

Rachel nodded. "It's quite easy actually, once you learn how to do it properly. I do it all the time with my own hair. Would you like me to show you?"

Duck nodded enthusiastically and sat in front of the small guest vanity as Rachel gathered combs and hair pins. Rachel untied the braid and with deft strokes of the silver comb began to straighten Duck's long locks.

Watching Rachel work and thinking about everything the woman had done for her Duck couldn't express how thankful she was. Here was a stranger who had not only invited her to a gala, but had given her a beautiful dress to wear, arranged a car to pick her up, even helped to do her hair. Duck was reminded of the fairy godmother in a story her granddad had told her, one who had turned a cinder maid into a princess for an evening. Duck blushed and mentally shook her head at her flight of fancy. Looking back at Rachel's reflection in the glass, Duck thought to herself, _Rachel has only just met me and yet she's done so much for me. I should do something to repay her. At the very least I should pay for the dress…_

With that in mind, Duck craned to look over her shoulder to look more directly at Rachel. "Rachel, how much does the dress cost?"

"Why do you ask?" Rachel raised her brows; her hands paused briefly from their task.

"Well," Duck twiddled her thumbs, "you've done so much for me, and I really want to repay you somehow for all your help. So let me pay you back for the dress…!" Duck stopped. On second thought, considering the material, the details, and the workmanship of the gown, the dress would probably cost two months worth of her meager shop girl salary. Short of living on bread and water for that amount of time, there was no way Duck could pay the full amount up-front, so she amended, "…Well, maybe not all at once, but at least let me pay you for the tailoring today!"

Rachel waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. "No, no. It's no trouble at all! This is a gift, and gifts do not require reimbursements."

"But you went to so much trouble for me; I should at least pay you back for the adjustments!"

"It's fine, Duck. Please." The deep sigh that escaped Rachel's lips surprised Duck. She turned around fully to face the brunette and saw an expression crossed between relief and sadness on the singer's face. "Think of it as my way of thanking you," Rachel continued, "for being Fakir's friend, and for keeping him company."

Confused and taken aback, Duck had no clue what Rachel meant, but by the tone of her voice Duck knew there was no arguing the woman into accepting a single penny. Feeling awkward and a little culpable, Duck turned around to face the mirror, "I-I don't really talk to Fakir per say…it's more like he comes and bothers me all the time, so I wouldn't really call us friends or anything…"

Rachel chuckled. "Oh, I know. Fakir isn't the easiest person to get along with; even when we were growing up he was reserved but stubborn," Rachel spoke as she continued to work on Duck's hair. "But if you get to know him you'll see that he's like a hedgehog: prickly on the outside but sweet and cute on the inside."

Imagining a hedgehog in her mind, Duck was unable to equate the funny little animal with the grumpy, pain-in-the-neck Fakir she knew; or rather, she simply had trouble associating him with the word "cute". But Rachel's comment about his childhood prompted Duck to inquire, "So you grew up together with Fakir?"

"Yes. We spent a lot of time together when we were young. But after I went to study music and Fakir went to university we hardly saw each other except during the holidays."

"Where did you go to study music?"

"Let's see, I studied at a conservatory in Prague before the war. After that I studied with an instructor in Philadelphia, where I gave my first public performance. Have you ever been to Prague before?"

"Eh, no. I was born in Ireland, but I moved here when I was little and don't remember much about my time in Europe. Other than that I haven't been outside of New York."

"You should visit someday when you have the chance. And Philly is beautiful as well, particularly during the spring." Rachel stepped back and examined the result of her work. "It's finished. What do you think?"

Distracted by their conversation, Duck focused on her reflection and was amazed by what she saw. The previously unruly mop of copper hair had been coiled into a flat bun pined to the base of her neck, giving the illusion of a bobbed hairdo. Thoroughly impressed, Duck met the reflection of Rachel's eyes, and said, "You're really good at this, Rachel! Where did you learn to dress hair?"

"My mother was a hair dresser and she taught me how to do my hair when I was a little girl. My father on the other hand, was a music teacher. Though my mother insisted I would make a good living dressing hair my father was adamant about my studies. Guess who won that debate," Rachel said with a laugh.

At the topic of Rachel's parents, Duck remembered something Fakir had said the night of the apartment blackout but didn't have a chance to ask him. "What about Fakir's parents? Fakir said his mother was Moorish, or Arabic, or both, but...I'm not sure what he meant."

A look of surprise appeared on Rachel's face. "He told you this?"

Duck nodded and Rachel seemed to absorb this for a moment before her lips curled into a fond smile. Sitting down at the edge of the guest bed, she put the comb in her hand down on the bed cover and faced Duck.

"Amira, that was her name."

"Huh?" Duck blinked.

"Her name; Fakir's mother's," the singer explained. "She was a smart, lovely woman and was the daughter of a well-to-do merchant in the town where our family was from. However she was a Moor, which is the name for Arabs in Portugal. Auntie Amira converted when she fell in love with my uncle, Antonio. But there was a lot of opposition to the marriage within the family given her background. Initially my father too, was against the match. He's a quiet, conservative man and doesn't like to stand out, which is why he changed my name from 'Raquel' to 'Rachel' when we moved here, so I'd blend in better."

Duck nodded. That was a common enough practice amongst immigrants. Employers were less likely to hire someone with an unfamiliar foreign name than someone whose name they recognize and felt comfortable addressing. Still, Duck felt a little sad at the knowledge that Rachel had to give up her original name.

"My uncle on the other hand," Rachel recounted, "was far more outgoing and strong minded. He didn't care about the protest from within the family and married my auntie. They decided to come to the states so they could live in peace. At that time the economy was also doing poorly so my father and my uncle decided to move both our families and have a fresh start."

"So both your parents and Fakir's parents came to New York? What happened then?"

"From what I was told, my grandfather had left us a good sized inheritance when he passed away and my father and my uncle wanted to use the money to start a business here. However they couldn't agree on what kind of business since my father prefers the small town setting he grew up in and wanted to open a music school in Pennsylvania where land was cheaper, and he eventually did. My uncle on the other hand, had read a lot about New York before coming here and had fallen in love with the city, and with literature being one of his primary passions, he had decided to stay in the city and open a bookstore. Our families parted ways at Ellis Island and I didn't see them again for many years."

Rachel stopped when she saw the distressed look on Duck's face and comforted the girl by saying, "Oh, it wasn't because we disliked each other. After my uncle married, Father warmed up to auntie and came to appreciate her for her wit. It was settling down and getting established that took a great deal of time for both our families. It was several years before Father had engaged enough students and established a reputation for the school to secure a steady income. My mother's hair dressing work helped, but I imagine it was just as difficult, if not perhaps more so, for Fakir's parents in the city. In any case, the first time I visited my aunt and uncle in New York was for Christmas, in 1908 I think, yes, that was it. My parents had visited them a few times before, briefly, but that year was the first time I met my cousin. He was reading by the window when I first caught sight of him, completely absorbed in his book."

Recalling the box of detective novels in Fakir's room, Duck wondered aloud, "Was he reading a detective novel?"

"Why yes, he was." Rachel answered, surprised. "Fakir loved mystery and detective adventures when he was a boy. In fact, for Christmases and birthdays that was all he would ask for from his parents. How did you guess?"

"I…" Duck paused. She couldn't very well tell Rachel she'd snuck into her cousin's bedroom and found the books. Instead, she answered weakly, "He-he's a detective, so I thought he might like detective stories."

Trying to steer the topic away from her curious insight into Fakir's reading habits, Duck asked, "You mentioned Fakir's father opened a bookstore in New York but Fakir never said anything about that. Where's his store, or has he retired already?"

The soprano's lips drew thin in hesitation. At last she sighed deeply and said softly, "Uncle and auntie passed away not long after I visited them for the first time, when Fakir was still young. He came to live with my family after their death and...that's why we spent so much time together as children."

Duck didn't know what to say in the face of that revelation. In hindsight, she hadn't realized until now that when speaking about her uncle and aunt Rachel had always used the past tense, which only made Duck feel all the more guilty for her insensitive questions. But another thought fleeted into the young woman's mind, the image of Fakir's scarred back. She had wondered what inflicted the wound that created the scar and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, though she could not explain why.

The touch of Rachel's hand on hers jolted Duck out of her dark thoughts as the brunette smiled sadly at her.

"I—! I'm so sorry! That was thoughtless of me, asking you so many questions," Duck whispered, unable to meet Rachel's eyes.

"You didn't know, so there is nothing to apologize for," Rachel said gently and patted the girl's hands.

She then stood up and with a motion of dusting off her wrinkle-less skirt, said in a more cheerful tone, "Let's finish putting together your outfit. Do you have any accessories, like a necklace or a bracelet? I could lend you something if you'd like." Rachel moved to get her jewelry box but Duck called out to her.

"Oh, you don't have to do that! I do have something to wear, sort of. I have a garnet pendent, but it's my mother's." Duck lowered her head, "Actually...she also passed away many years ago, but I don't think she would mind. It'll just be a little weird for me to wear it because…well, it was an engagement present from my Pa before they got married," Duck looked up at Rachel and, scratching her chin, managed a giggle as her cheeks blushed involuntarily.

Rachel leaned her shoulder against the frame of the door. Gently, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, what was your mother like?"

Duck's mood brightened at the question and she answered animatedly, "Sure! Let's see, well, first of all Ma was a very beautiful and nice person. Everyone who met her liked her a lot. She was also really talented in ballet and used to be a prima ballerina in Europe. After we moved she taught ballet here in New York."

"What a coincidence! Did you know Fakir also has a friend who is a ballet dancer?"

"He's never told me about any friends of his." Although Duck had to admit, she didn't think he would have very many, given his personality.

Rachel seemed to pick up on this and gave a knowing nod. "Fakir did not have many friends growing up, but he did have one constant companion: a boy from the local orphanage who aspired to be a dancer. Fakir would join his friend to peek in on the dance classes given by a retired dance instructor in our town and would later sit and watch as his friend practiced what they saw. Though he himself never danced he was always content to watch."

That explained why the records Fakir was listening to reminded Duck of her mother, she realized: because they were the type of piano music used during ballet practice. Duck wondered if Fakir remembered his friend when he played those records and an ominous thought loomed in Duck's mind and she asked hesitantly, "What happened to that boy? Is he still alright?"

To Duck's relief, Rachel said, "He had gone off to study dance professionally some years ago. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from him since."

"In that case, I hope he's doing well, and that Fakir will see him again one day soon," Duck said optimistically. "Maybe when they meet again he will be famous and the two of them will have lots of things to catch up on!"

"Perhaps," Rachel smiled. "If they're destined to meet again then I am sure they will."

* * *

Fakir walked away from the window when he saw the Essex sedan Rachel had arranged for them pull up to the curbside. Grabbing his coat from the back of the desk chair, he closed his apartment door and in one step was knocking on Duck's door.

"I'm coming!" Duck's voice was muffled by the sound of a loud bang and a thud and Fakir wondered not for the first time how this clumsy girl managed to get by all these years, living by herself.

As he stood contemplating that thought, Duck opened her door, babbling an apology as she tried to find her key in her purse. "I'm sorry! One of my earrings rolled under the bed but I couldn't reach it so I tried to use a rolling pin to get it out but it wasn't long enough so I..."

Fakir rolled his eyes at her unpunctuated stream of words. He was about to make a sardonic remark but the words died on the tip of his tongue when his vision focused on Duck's person. Her hair neatly done in the style Rachel had taught her and the warm apricot-colored gown peaking out from beneath the unbuttoned long gray coat, for a second Fakir did not recognize the person in front of him as the klutzy, plain Duck he'd known for the past weeks. So distracted by her appearance, Fakir almost didn't hear Duck speaking to him.

"Is something wrong Fakir?" She peered at him questioningly.

"Ah—nothing," Fakir cleared his throat. "Isn't this dress is a bit too flashy? You'll stand out at the party this way."

"You think so?" Duck examined herself and chewed on her lower lip. "Rachel said it looked nice on me so I thought it would be alright."

Grudgingly, Fakir had to admit he was being unfair in his assessment. The beading, while adding a highlight to the gown, was far from the loud, gaudy dresses some women were want to wear nowadays, and other than the red, glassy pendent at Duck's throat she wore no other accessory beside the small pearl earrings that were mostly hidden by her hair. If anything, she would be considered _under dressed_ for the event they were attending. Yet Fakir couldn't ignore how the light rouge on her cheeks made the sparkling blue of her eyes stand out, or how the weight of the fabric accentuated her flat chest, pronouncing her unintentionally fashionable figure.

This last thought made Fakir turn his head away sharply, but he couldn't suppress the blush flooding across his own cheeks.

"Uh, never mind." Turning away abruptly, Fakir made wide strides towards the stairwell.

Duck made haste to follow him, shouting, "H-hey, wait for me!" while trying not to trip over her shoes.

* * *

The ride to the theater was conducted in silence, with Fakir sitting beside but looking away from Duck. Duck hardly noticed however, as she felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach the whole time she was in the car. Twisting a button on her woolen coat until it nearly popped off, a bright yellow glow from outside the car window stopped her hands and Duck caught sight of the opera house. Cars and taxis pulled up to the curb next to the theater entrance and Duck marveled at the sight before her as their vehicle pulled into the queue.

The lamps along the street bathed everything in a warm yellow glow, and when reflected off the building's sandy facade gave the structure the illusion that it was glowing. Below the blue canopy, men decked out in black and white suits and women in rich gowns waltzed leisurely towards the entrance, guided by the lush red carpet under their feet. When it was their turn to disembark, Duck gingerly stepped out of the car, her hands clutching the matching beaded purse to her chest. She would have stood there rooted to the ground had she not felt Fakir's hand on her elbow.

"Don't worry; I'll be there with you the whole time," he said, gazing intently at the entrance before meeting Duck's eyes.

Seeing Fakir's steady gaze, the butterflies that had been flying wildly inside of her settled, and taking a deep breath, Duck stepped forward to join the ranks of the other guests with Fakir at her side.

As Fakir and Duck walked into the lobby, a familiar Gray Ghost pulled up beside the curb. Mytho, dressed in an impeccable white suit and black bow tie, waited patiently for the valet to open the door for them while an equally dolled up Rue shifted nervously in her seat beside him.

"You look wonderful tonight Rue," Mytho smiled at the dark haired actress.

"Thank you," Rue responded noncommittally, her mind obviously distracted.

"This shade of red suits you very well, especially at night," her beau continued, "The color reminds me of the ruby on Father's ring."

Trying to distract herself, Rue picked up the last part of Mytho's sentence. "Where is Daddy anyway? He said he would be coming."

"Perhaps something came up. Maybe it's something about that witness."

Rue shuddered and Mytho chuckled at her response. "Oh Rue, you are so easy to tease sometimes."

The door of the car opened and Mytho stepped out. Reaching back inside the car, he offered his hand to Rue. Impulsively, Rue wondered what would happen if she stayed in the car and told the driver to go home and leave Mytho to his own devices. But as soon as the thought formed it was banished and looking at Mytho's expectant hand Rue knew there was only one thing she could do.

* * *

A/N I originally wrote a lot more for this chapter, but I ended up cutting it off where I did so I won't have a 30 page chapter. XD;; I also wanted to explore a little bit of the immigrant experience in this chapter while at the same time flesh out Rachel and Fakir's AU family background. Now for a few more notes:

Rachel's married last name (and therefore Han's last name) "Strauss" is named after Johann Strauss II, the famed Austrian composer from the late 19th century. I often listened to _The Blue Danube—_arguably one of his most popular pieces—when I was little. In addition to waltzes and other dance music, he was also well known for writing light operas.

Pastel de nata, also known as egg tart, is a Portuguese pastry. They're very common in places with heavy Portuguese influence, and based on personal experience, are very popular in Asia.

Beside the familiar "Tin Lizzie" Ford Model T and swanky Chryslers and Buicks, there were many more types of cars on the road back in the 1920s. The Essex was a car produced from 1918 to 1932, first by the Essex Motor Company then by the Hudson Motor Company, and was considered an affordable, small car. At this time in American history there were hundreds of automobile companies, but many of them were eventually bought by bigger companies or went defunct as the market became oversaturated.

And yes, believe it or not, it was fashionable once to have a flat chest. So don't blame Fakir for staring; blame the fashion. ;D

EDIT: Minor edits were made in the first scene with Autor


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"I'm so sorry Fakir! I tried! I really did!"

Duck and Fakir were in the grand ballroom of the theater along with the rest of the audience invited to the gala. Despite the multitude of famous and influential people milling around about her, Duck could only dwell on how she had fallen asleep in the middle of the opera. She had endeavored valiantly to stay awake, but has nodded off shortly after intermission and had woken up to the sound of applause at the end of the final act.

Fakir shrugged. "It's not as if she could see you in a place this big. And with the lighting no one on stage would be able to see past the first three rows."

"That's true, but..." Duck sighed dejectedly. She'd wanted to be able to fully enjoy this opportunity Rachel had given her, particularly since it was a personal invitation from the singer herself.

"You're getting distracted by this," Fakir reminded the moping red head. "Don't forget what we came here to do."

"I know, I know," Duck mumbled. At least though, she reconciled herself, she did get to hear Rachel sing after all. Although she hadn't a clue what the songs were about she could still appreciate the beautiful quality of Rachel's voice. Duck smiled at the recent memory.

"Ah, there you are!"

At the familiar voice both Fakir and Duck looked up and saw Rachel, who had changed out of her costume and was now wearing a lovely green gown, approach them with a man Duck had never seen before.

"I hope both of you enjoyed the performance," Rachel smiled, to which Duck responded effusively while Fakir merely grunted. Laughing, Rachel turned to the man at her elbow. "Duck, this is my husband, Hans. He was at work when you came by last so I didn't get a chance to introduce you to him."

"Glad to meet you," Hans nodded politely at Duck. "Rachel told me all about you and how supportive you were of her performance."

"Oh!" Duck giggled bashfully. "Well, uh, to tell you the truth I didn't really understand what the opera was about—that is, I mean, I didn't understand what the words were saying. It wasn't in English, I knew that much." She turned towards the opera singer with genuine curiosity. "What language were you singing in, Rachel?"

"It's Czech. I studied the language when I was in Prague and…"

While Rachel discussed the opera with Duck, Fakir discretely scanned the ballroom. There was no sign of the Corvo patriarch, and Fakir did not think he had seen him before the performance either. Dominico Corvo was not known to be a very public man; still, he would always let his presence be known at an event.

Fakir grimaced. There was the chance that he had miscalculated. Could it be that the old man did not attend tonight's reception or the opera? If so then there was little chance Principe would be present either and his plan would be in vain.

As Fakir agitated over the possibilities, his eyes caught the glint from a pair of spectacles in the crowd, and when he focused on its source, the detective's brows drew together. Across the room and half hidden by the other guests was Autor, standing in a far corner beside a marble pillar. Fakir would've otherwise ignored him, expect the other man's gaze was fixed on him and it was plain he was trying to catch Fakir's attention.

"Wait here, I'll be back in a minute," Fakir said to Duck, interrupting her conversation with Rachel.

"Fakir, where—" Rachel asked but her cousin was already gone. Perplexed, Duck watched Fakir dissolve into the crowd. Looking back at Rachel, she saw the singer was equally confused, with a touch of concern in her eyes.

At this time a party of well-wishers approached Rachel and the soprano touched Duck's hand in apology. "We'll talk more later, Duck. If there's anything you need just ask for me, okay?"

"I'll be alright, but thank you," Duck said, and watched as Rachel and Hans greeted the other guests and were swept up by the crowd.

Left to her own devices, Duck sighed. Other than Rachel and her husband she didn't know any of the other guests, and Fakir had gone off somewhere without an explanation.

Duck shifted uncomfortably in her heels. She wondered half-heartedly if she ought to look around the gala to see if she could find Principe, but remembered that Fakir had instructed her to stay put, to which she grudgingly obeyed.

As Duck continued to stand there, pursing her lips impatiently, someone came up to her from behind and said, "Pardon me, dear, but are you by any chance the daughter of Elsa D. Stannus?"

* * *

Fakir nudged his way through the crowd and came upon Autor in his secluded corner. Autor greeted the detective with a condescending smirk.

"What a surprise. Given the annual salary of a New York police detective I would never have expected to see you here."

Fakir however didn't take the bait. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Attending the opera. Surely a detective can deduce _that _much."

"Right, and I can also deduce that you standing here with a grin on your face is not a coincidence. I've already told you I'm not interested in any project you might have, so beat it."

Autor pushed up the bridge of his glasses, causing the lens to shift so that they hid his eyes. "Ah, but I must admit, my decision to attend the opera was due to a bit of serendipity. I found an interesting old newspaper clipping from my collection, one that I had nearly forgotten about until it quite literally fell out in front of me."

Confused by this seemingly unrelated tangent, Fakir frowned but kept listening.

"It was a notice, a small one, from 16 years ago about a double homicide," the journalist elaborated, and at the last two words Fakir's eyes widened as his hands balled into fists but he otherwise stood stock still as Autor continued. "The victims, according to the article, were a married couple who operated a small bookshop in the Bronx area. The police believed two armed suspects entered the store late at night and gunned down the victims. The crime was believed to be a warning from the mob, as it was known that the store was located in an area controlled by a racket affiliated with Don Corvo, and the couple had previously filed complaints with the police about solicitations and threats from the mob. There was a witness to the crime, for the couple's son had survived the murder. But he was unable to identify the perpetrators and ultimately no one was ever charged for the crime."

Here Autor paused and his voice was hush when he spoke again. "However the story doesn't end there. Riddled by guilt and a desire for revenge, the boy became a police detective for the New York Police Department when he grew up, and his name is—"

At that moment Fakir grabbed Autor by the collar and slammed him against the wall next to them. Fakir raised his fist, his green eyes flashing with fury. Autor sputtered breathlessly, "If this comes to light you will be pulled off the case! What's more, the judge would never accept the case because of your conflict of interest in its outcome!"

At those words Fakir's fist froze in midair, hovering just a few inches away from the journalist's face. He stood glaring at Autor for a long moment. The rest of the party carried on behind them, but in the shadow cast by the pillar Autor held his breath and waited for Fakir's response.

"Go ahead and plaster it across the newspapers if you want." Fakir released Autor, disdainfully pushing the shorter man away before turning and walking back towards the crowd.

Autor gingerly straightened his crumpled shirt collar when Fakir stopped to glower back at the bespectacled man and said in a voice so frigid Autor could not suppress a shudder. "But you had better say your prayers," Fakir's eyes narrowed into menacing slits. "Because I don't care if it costs me my badge, I _will _make you pay for it."

With those parting words Fakir left a shaken Autor behind and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Duck's mouth dropped opened in surprise at the question. Turning to one side, a finely dressed blond woman in her early forties stood peering inquisitively at her. "Uh, yes, I am," Duck answered demurely.

"I knew it!" The woman smiled, deeply pleased, and explained, "I saw your mother at her premier performance many years ago. I had the great fortune of meeting her afterwards at the reception and I clearly remember the pendant she wore, the same pendant you are wearing now," she gestured at the jewel at Duck's throat. "And you look so remarkably like your mother, I fairly thought Elsa herself was here again tonight!"

Duck looked at the pendant, her eyes wide in amazement. The half dollar-size pendant was made from thinly cut pieces of translucent garnet set in a frame of gold, giving it a delicate, almost ethereal quality. Duck had long admired it when it was worn by her mother but she had never expected anyone else to recognize the object.

The blond lady turned to wave over her friends. "Ronnie," she called out as a trio of women approached. "I was right! Doesn't she look just like Elsa did back then?"

The brunette of the group gasped. "My goodness, and how!" She stepped forward and took up both of Duck's hands and shook them enthusiastically. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, my dear. I—we—all _greatly_ admired your mother," she gushed and the other women nodded in agreement. "I had never seen a more passionate and beautiful performance of Odette than that of hers at her English premier."

"We first saw Elsa at her premier as Odette in London," recounted a ginger haired member of the quartet. "This was well before the war of course, and we were all dancers ourselves back then. We had heard rumors of a raising prima donna who had trained in Russia and was returning home to perform. But no one had heard of her before and we were all quite curious as to what she was like."

"Her technique was perfect and she had such charisma. Oh, I remember that performance created quite a stir at the time," a dark haired woman reminisced. "I had the pleasure of working with her in a production of the Nutcracker a few years afterwards. Even during practice you could see how passionate she was about her dancing. There was always a sparkle in her eyes, a spring in her step, so spirited and full of life. It's too bad your mother retired so early; I'm sure that had she continued with ballet, she would have become a prima donna assolutia."

"That's certainly right," the brunette lamented. "It was such a shock when I found out she was retiring. She was only 25 at the time, at the peak of her career! I could never understand what drove her to abandon the stage like that." She shook her head sadly. "Then, when I found out about her death, I was simply devastated. The world had lost a true artist and one of the greatest ballerinas of all time."

As the brunette finished her elegy, the ginger haired woman turned to Duck. "Say, how old are you, dear?"

"I'm 19," Duck answered reticently.

"Wasn't it 19 years ago that Elsa announced her retirement?" The blonde wondered aloud and shared a look with her friends before four pairs of eyes descended on Duck.

At their gaze Duck fidgeted uncomfortably. Despite feeling better about her role in her mother's early retirement after her conversation with Fakir, Duck could not completely let go of the feeling of guilt she'd been carrying for so many years. To have so many people standing in acknowledgment of that right now made her want to run and hide.

Seeing Duck's discomfort, the blonde cleared her throat and in an obvious attempt to change the subject, asked, "What about your father? Is he here tonight as well? We never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance and would love to meet him."

"Yes, do introduce us to him!" the dark haired woman put in eagerly. "I hadn't known Elsa had been married until one of the girls in my company told me. I've always wondered what sort of man he is."

However this new topic only seemed to make Duck more uneasy. Shuffling her feet, her eyes fixed on the floor, Duck stuttered, "Um…actually, Father passed away before I was born. I-I only know he used to be a playwright, I think, and that he and my mother met in Moscow where he was producing a play."

"Oh my..." The brunette exclaimed quietly and brought her hand to her lips. "Before you were born? I'm so sorry, dear. Maybe that's the reason why Elsa retired."

"No, it couldn't have been," interrupted the ginger haired woman. "I remember our producer, Mr. Donaldson, once told me Elsa sent him a letter saying she wanted to start dancing again and asked if he knew anyone who's hiring. I remember that was 15 years ago because he told me right before I myself got married. But for some reason she never wrote back to him, and in the end never came out of retirement after all."

_Ma had wanted to return to ballet?_ Duck was dumbfounded by the revelation.

Duck had always assumed her mother gave up ballet after giving birth to her, and that raising and caring for her had been the reason for Elsa's retirement. But now it seemed that was not true, that Elsa had still wanted to return to the stage. If that was the case then what made her change her mind? Why had she given up that idea and moved her family to the new world, never again to dance under the spotlight?

The quartet evidently had the same question as Duck, and she was called away from her thoughts when one or another of the women said, "And so that's the real mystery behind all this."

Here four pairs of eyes converged on the red head once again, and this time Duck slinked back involuntarily. "None of us could figure it out, so we simply had to ask you. Did your mother ever tell you what her reason was for retiring?"

Duck looked back at them helplessly. "Um, well…I…"

As Duck struggled for an answer, a short distance away Rue swept into the ballroom and picked up a glass flute from a passing tray. Putting the glass to her lips, she grimaced at the fizzy ginger ale, which was a poor substitute for champagne, and exhaled a frustrated sigh as she turned her eyes to the crowd.

Rue had been looking fruitlessly for Mytho, who after the performance had disappeared off somewhere. She scowled. Though she was loath to let him roam around the ballroom by himself, she realized that with her notoriety it was safer for him to remain anonymous in the crowd. Better to let him be, she thought reluctantly, her feet taking her into the crowd as she mulled over her thoughts.

Besides Mytho, Rue was also concerned about the absence of her father from the event. She had never known him to skip appointments, and he had sent word the day before, instructing them to meet him at the opera, yet there had been no message from him all day. She'd tried calling him after the performance but the butler who answered only told her he was occupied by some business and did not wish to be disturbed. Rue's first thought was of the problem with the unidentified witness, but with her father's convoluted web of associates and connections it could be anything. Whatever it was, for it to have kept him from attending the opera it had to be something urgent.

As Rue's eyes passed through the multitude of finely dressed guests they caught sight of a vaguely familiar profile a few feet away from her. Rue narrowed her eyes quizzically and approached the figure for a better look.

The young woman in the apricot dress was surrounded by a group of women, their eager expressions reminding Rue of cats that have cornered a mouse, whiskers twitching with anticipation. When the figure in the middle suddenly turned, Rue found herself looking into a pair of startled blue eyes, the same eyes that had once smiled at her from the doorway of a pointe shoe store, and Rue's own wine-red eyes flashed in surprise.

Duck had been desperately looking around for someone she knew so she could tactfully excuse herself. But she had never expected that person to be the classy young flapper who had graced her shop weeks before.

"Rue!" Duck exclaimed, their eyes meeting.

Turning to the blond spokeswoman of the group, Duck smiled sheepishly and started edging her way out. "Eh, I uh, there's someone I know over there that I need to talk to, excuse me."

Rue watched with one eyebrow raised as Duck toddled over and ducked behind her for cover. The ginger haired woman recognized Rue and approached the young heiress. "Why, if it isn't Miss Odile Legnani!"

Duck blinked at the unfamiliar name while the dark haired woman said to Rue, "I didn't know you are the friend of Miss Stannus here."

"We are...acquainted," Rue replied, glancing at Duck.

Just then, another one of the four women gestured towards the others regarding some enticing new point of interest.

"Well, it has been a great pleasure meeting you, Miss Stannus, and you too, Miss Legnani," one of the women quipped to Rue even as their feet started to shuffle away toward the next attraction. "We look forward to your next picture!"

Duck sighed a silent breath of relief once the group had moved away, leaving her alone together with Rue.

"So, what was that all about?"

"They knew my mother and were asking about her..." Duck scratched her cheek uneasily.

Rue scoffed. "Seemed like a bunch of nosy snoops to me. But besides that," she fixed her eyes on Duck, "I'm surprised to see you here."

Duck blushed when she saw Rue looking over the gown gifted to her by Rachel. She hastily explained, "I know the cousin of the lead soprano and she invited me to the opera. A-actually it was very out of the blue. In fact, I can't quite believe I'm here myself!"

As Rue was about to head off around the ballroom once more, Duck remembered the unfamiliar name by which Rue had been addressed. "So, why did she call you Odile if your name is Rue?"

"That's my screen name," Rue answered as she—with Duck in tow—meandered through the bustling party. "I've been using it for two years now, ever since I started making movies."

"I see, so you're an actress!"

Despite Duck's enthusiastic response, an affronted frown tugged at the edge of Rue's lips. "You've honestly _never_ heard of that name before?"

"I don't go to the cinema all that often," Duck admitted, "but I think 'Rue' is a very nice name. What made you want to use a stage name?"

Rue stopped and exchanged her cup of stale ginger ale for a fresh, chilled glass from a passing tray. "A successful actress needs three things: talent, beauty, and a name people will remember you by. 'Rue' is too plain of a name so I choose to use a stage name instead. Which reminds me, call me 'Miss Legnani' in public; I don't want people to know that I have such an unglamorous name."

Following Rue's example, Duck also picked up a glass of the sweet beverage. "Er, I'll try, Miss Legnaah-ni," Duck drawled clumsily, struggling with the unfamiliar pronunciation.

"No, it's Legnani, Leg-_nani_. Say it correctly."

Duck paused, pursing her lips, and then looked fiercely determined. "Leg-nanny?"

At Duck's butchered pronunciation Rue rolled her eyes, but much to her own astonishment Rue found she couldn't hold back a chuckle. Collecting herself, the actress shook her head, not only at the red head's blunder, but in wonder of how it was that every time she was in the company of this girl, she always felt more at ease despite herself.

"Oh, never mind," Rue dismissed it exasperatedly, but with a smile still lingering on her face. "Not to put myself in the same category as those old hags, but you mentioned your mother was a ballet dancer once. You never told me her name."

"Her name was Elsa Stannus," Duck answered with none of her earlier hesitation. "Have you heard of her before?"

"No, I…" Rue paused. The last name of Stannus had not rung any bells but the name Elsa somehow sounded familiar. Rue could not recall where she could have heard it, so she answered, "I don't think so, but I might have. I'm not sure."

"Ma had retired when we came to New York, so people who knew of her are usually from Europe, back when she used to perform." Duck sipped her drink thoughtfully. "She did teach for a number of years at the Crown Dance Studio but other than that—"

"Crown Dance Studio?" Rue interrupted. "I used to practice there."

Duck considered this. "Really? Maybe that's why you've heard of Ma. She was very popular with her students."

"I didn't take classes there, but I know someone who did. We met there back when he—"

This time Rue was the one to be interrupted as a man in a dark suit came up to her and said in a low voice, "A message for you, Miss Corvo."

The man had stood close enough to Duck that she could make out the last two words he had spoken and her blue eyes widened. "Miss...Corvo?"

After that first sentence the man leaned in and whispered something into Rue's ear. Duck could not hear anything he was saying, but she watched as Rue's expression darkened, her thin black brows furrowing. She gave the man a curt nod and sighed resignedly.

Seeing Duck's confused mien, Rue said, "I need to go now. But before I leave, I want to give you something."

Rue asked the man for a pen, grabbed a napkin from the adjacent refreshments table and scribbled something onto it, startling Duck when the actress stepped right in front of her.

"Here's my number," she said, holding up the napkin. "I'm usually very busy, but…" Rue paused, her expression remaining stoic but with a trace of pink tinting her high cheekbones, "I would like us to keep in touch. If I'm not home I'll most likely be at my father's place or on set, in which case you can reach me through my agent," Rue jotted two more rows of numbers onto the napkin before placing it into Duck's hands. "I don't suppose you have a phone at your place?"

Duck demurred, shaking her head mutely.

"Oh well then—I'll ring your shop if I want to reach you. What was its name again?"

"I-it's the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. But Rue..."

Clutching the napkin in her hands, Duck opened her mouth but found herself incapable of forming the words. Was Rue really related to Domenico Corvo? It couldn't be, could it? It had to be a coincidence! Duck wanted to say all these things, but a lump in the back of her throat prevented her from uttering a sound.

Rue was looking expectantly at Duck to finish her sentence when something behind Duck caught Rue's attention. Duck began to turn around to see what it was, but before she could complete the movement a hauntingly familiar voice made her blood run cold.

"Ah, there you are Rue. Father asked us to return home right away."

Duck found herself looking into the face of the man whose appearance had eluded her on two other occasions. Now she saw him clear as day, dressed in an exquisite white suit that put together with his soft layered hair and fair features, reminded Duck yet again of the reason that people would call him "the prince". But it was his eyes that Duck found herself looking into. They were a rich, amber color, nothing at all like that of a cold-blooded killer as she had imagined. And yet, Duck thought, there was an edge of hardness to them, like diamonds, beautiful but hard.

It was when the pair of golden eyes blinked that Duck realized he had also been staring at her as well, and above the chatter and noise of the party she saw his lips move and he whispered, "Elsa?"

Duck gasped mutely, not quite sure she had just heard what she thought she heard when Rue walked up to them, completely ignorant of the exchange.

"I know. Let's get going then," she said and wrapped her arms around Mytho's. When he didn't respond, she looked at him, askance. "Mytho?"

As if waking from a dream, Mytho glanced at Rue, then back at Duck, before he finally gave a small chuckle and smiled apologetically at Duck, "I'm sorry, miss, I must've mistaken you for someone else. If you'll excuse us." He nodded politely at Duck and with Rue on his arm, the couple turned away, following the man in the dark suit and disappearing in the crowd.

Duck was left where she stood, her mind gone blank at everything that had just transpired. There was no doubt in her mind that this man was Principe, the man Fakir and the police had been searching for so long. But his presence also meant that her new friend, Rue, was almost certainly related to Domenico Corvo, the man who helmed the monstrous organization that seemed completely untouchable.

This man, whose name was Mytho, who somehow knew her mother's name, this man with the amber eyes...the same eyes that oversaw a man's murder in cold blood…

With a jolt, Duck remembered her purpose here and the thought jumpstarted her mind back into working order. She looked around, wanting to tell Fakir about what had just transpired.

But Fakir was still gone and Duck had no way of letting him know where she was. Mentally kicking herself for not listening to him to stay where she was the one time it made a difference, Duck had no choice but to try to retrace her footsteps and hoped Fakir would be waiting for her back at their original location when she got there.

Likewise, Fakir had been engaging in his own search for Duck. When he had returned and found her gone he had cursed under his breath and canvassed the ballroom for her. But the building was huge and having no idea where she might have wandered off to, Fakir opted for a better vantage point and climbed up the stairs that led to the marble balcony overlooking the entire ballroom.

He'd been scanning the room when he spotted a red head frantically meandering its way around the crowd. Knowing that could only be Duck, Fakir descended the stairs and threaded his way through the party-goers towards her location. When he caught sight of the familiar lick of red unruly hair waving above the crowd like a flag, Fakir moved towards it and suddenly found Duck standing right in front of him.

"Idiot, I told you to stay—!" he began to reprimand her but to his surprise Duck grabbed his arms and started talking.

"I found him, Fakir! I found him! I was talking to Rue, whose last name turned out to be Corvo, when this man came up and whispered something to her and she said she had to go but—"

"Wait, _Rue Corvo_? You _know_ Rue Corvo! How?"

"She came to my shop once and she tried on a pair of toe shoes."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Fakir exclaimed, aghast.

"Because I just found out her last name tonight!" Duck retorted curtly, anxious to continue with her narrative. "So then she gave me her phone number. That was when he came up behind me, telling her that they should go, and I recognized his voice and I saw his face before he and Rue turned and left. He was dressed in a white suit and-and he has layered white hair!"

Fakir's brows furrowed. Seizing on the last few words, he said, "I know that. What else? What about his eyes? Did you see them this time?"

Duck gasped a moment to catch her breath. "Yes! They're amber colored, and I also heard his name—"

Fakir involuntarily felt his muscles tense and his chest tighten. The anger from his earlier encounter with Autor, his irritation with Duck wandering off on her own, all but disappeared, replaced by a rush of adrenalin and laced with a heavy sense of dread.

Clasping Duck's shoulder in a vice grip, the volume of his ensuing words caught the attention of those nearby yet he was too intent on this matter to pay that any heed. "What was his name?" he demanded.

Duck winced at Fakir's iron grip on her shoulder, but the intensity she saw in his green eyes made her cringe. It reminded her of the first time they had met, and for one unnerving second Duck felt as if she was back in that dark ally, feeling helpless and confused.

Slowly, she mumbled, "It-it's Mytho, but I can't be sure I heard it correctly—"

Before Duck could finish her sentence Fakir was gone.

Heedless of the people in his way, Fakir pushed and jostled his way towards the exit. The people around him faded into a blur of shapes and noises. Above the undecipherable din of the crowd Fakir could hear the echoed voices of two boys from long ago, standing by the side of a country road on a clear spring day.

"_How long are you going to be gone?" asked the dark haired of the pair of teenage boys._

"_I don't know, but it'll be a long and difficult journey. But you know, I'm not afraid, because this has always been my dream and I'll do anything to achieve it,"_ _answered the lanky fair-haired boy, a determined smile on his lips and a knapsack on the ground by his feet._

_The dark haired boy didn't respond and stood glaring at the ground. His light-haired companion looked at him, puzzled, when finally the black haired boy looked up and turned back toward him, and spoke with a determined gaze set in his eyes, mirroring his companion's._

"_I have a dream of my own as well, and no matter what, someday I'm going to make it happen. So you had better make sure you fulfill yours too, all right?"_

_The fair haired boy grinned. "That will be our promise then!"_

Fakir stopped abruptly to avoid ramming straight into a startled couple and veered around them, their angry voices replacing the ones in his memories.

_This _can't_ be your dream Mytho! What happened? Where had you gone wrong? _

Fakir's eyebrows creased with anguish as he clenched his teeth, clearing the final few feet into the ballroom's doorway.

* * *

Outside the theater Rue stood with her arms crossed, tapped her fingers impatiently for their car to pull up. Glancing at Mytho she found him gazing back at the building entrance, completely distracted. Wanting to know the cause of his strange behavior, Rue opened her mouth to speak but at that moment the Gray Ghost pulled up, and the liveried chauffeur quickly stepped out to open the door for her.

Telling herself she would ask him later, the actress stepped towards the car when a cold breeze swept by and she realized something was missing and grimaced. "Oh drat! I completely forgot about my coat."

"I'll go get it for you," Mytho said quickly and took off for the theater entrance before Rue could protest.

Once indoors again, Mytho slowed down his pace and gazed around the room, but did not see what he sought in the now nearly empty foyer. Seeing the ballroom entrance, he took a step forward but hesitated. After pausing for a moment, he reluctantly turned on his heels and went on to retrieve Rue's coat as promised.

With the coat in his arm, Mytho made his way back towards the theater entrance when a loud, rapid cascade of footsteps made him pause. Glancing behind him, Mytho glimpsed a man with slightly tousled jet, black hair, his breath heavy from excursion. Turning around, Mytho faced him directly.

The two men stood frozen in the doorway for an infinite moment, each gazing upon the other without uttering a word.

Fakir was the first to speak, but the voice that finally came through his lips was no more than a strangled whisper. "I can't believe it," he choked out. "Mytho…it really _is_ you."

* * *

A/N: Just a few notes this time around, folks. For the attentive fans, you might have noticed I based the four women on the four girls seen in the advanced class with Rue in the canon. Their gossiping trait is purely my own invention as none of them had a speaking role in the anime. Also, according to Wikipedia ginger ale was used as a legal substitute for champagne in the 1920's, in addition to being a popular ingredient in mixed drinks.

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Fakir?" Mytho's eyes widened at the sight of the other man.

In stark contrast to the distress on Fakir's face, Mytho approached Fakir and greeted his old friend with a joyful smile. "What a surprise! It's been so long since we last met."

The joy was not mirrored on Fakir's face as he inquired in a tremulous whisper, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the dance school you said you were going to attend?"

Mytho's footsteps stopped and he held Fakir's gaze. Emerald eyes locked with amber ones, the former demanding an answer from the bearer of the latter.

At last Mytho dipped his head slightly, the smile on his lips turning wistful. "I _did_ attend the school, Fakir."

"Then why are you _here_ now?" Fakir demanded, his voice echoing in the deserted foyer. "What have you been doing all this time?"

Instead of answering, Mytho laughed softly and flashed Fakir an apologetic smile. "We can catch up some other time. I'm afraid I don't have time to answer all of your questions tonight. I am in a hurry, you see." With that, he turned around and started down the stairs leading to the entrance.

"You came here with Rue Corvo, the daughter of Domenico Corvo, didn't you?"

Once again, Mytho stopped. Barely glancing back at his old friend, he replied evenly, "Yes, I have."

"And what about Principe?" Fakir uttered in a hushed tone, and at this Mytho stiffened. "How did you get that name?"

Slowly, Mytho turned back around to face Fakir. Standing at the bottom of the marble stairs, Mytho looked up to meet Fakir's accusatory green eyes. Softly, Mytho asked, "Fakir, tell me, has your dream come true?"

Fakir glared down at Mytho, his eyes narrowed, fists clenched. His throat felt so tight that it seemed hard for him to breathe. He tore away from Mytho's gaze, gritting his teeth wordlessly.

"Fakir," Mytho maintained his gaze, "has your dream come true?"

Taking a shuddering breath, at last Fakir managed a strangled, muttered, "Yes, it has."

Mytho closed his eyes and nodded once. "I see." Opening his eyes again, he peered back up at Fakir, and said sincerely, "I offer you my belated congratulations. Over these years I've realized that achieving one's dream comes with a price. Nothing can be accomplished without sacrifice.

"And in this case Fakir," Mytho declared with finality, "the price of your success is our friendship."

Then Mytho turned away and strode out of the theater entrance, leaving Fakir standing there, staring with horror at his former friend.

Fakir wanted to race down the steps, grab Mytho's shoulder and shake them both awake from this senseless nightmare. But, from this dream there could be no awakening. There was nothing he could say to Mytho that would change this reality before him.

The lone dark-haired man lingered in the foyer, standing there helplessly as if he was the puppet of a grinning, sadistic Fate, with his strings gone slack and all strength, all sensations draining away, leaving him as but an empty shell of devastated despair.

And that was how Rachel found him. After disentangling herself from the last group of well-wishers and a few quick words to Hans, she had set out alone to find her cousin. Having failed to locate him in the ballroom, she wandered out into the foyer.

Rachel caught sight of a familiar seated figure at the top of the stairs. She rushed up to him and her face blanched when she saw Fakir in a catatonic state, his usually alert green eyes now distant and vacant.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she shook him gently. "Fakir? Fakir, are you all right?"

Slowly, Fakir seemed to register her presence and Rachel could see his face was ashen white despite the tan complexion of his skin.

He got up unsteadily and blinked several times before turning and looking down at the direction of Rachel's feet, his voice low and disconnected. "I…I'm going back, Rachel. Have Duck take the car; I'll find a taxi."

Rachel stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Cupping his face entreatingly in her hands, her eyes bearing intently on him, she implored, "What _happened,_ Fakir? You've been behaving so strangely as of late. You haven't contacted us for months, then you moved away without any notice, and now I find you here pale as a ghost. Please, tell me what is wrong?"

Fakir shoved Rachel's hands aside and drew away from her, avoiding her eyes. "Leave me alone!" he bellowed, making Rachel wince, a wounded look on her face. Instantly regretting his reaction, Fakir shut his eyes and ran a hand across his face, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

Opening weary eyes to look at Rachel, he touched his older cousin's arm in a mute apology before descending the stairs and passing beyond the building's doors. Rachel watched as he melted into the night, her eyes overcast with worry.

The sound of clacking heels and gasping breaths made Rachel look away, and she saw Duck racing into the foyer.

"Rachel!" Duck exhaled, stopping beside the singer. "Have you seen Fakir? He ran off so quickly that I couldn't follow him!"

Rachel grimaced, and then turned to look back at the theater entrance. "He said he's decided to go home early, and asked that you take the car back on your own."

"What!" Duck exclaimed in dismay. "How can he do that? Ohhh! It was Fakir's idea to look for him in the first place and now he just takes off and—!"

Duck's angry rambling halted abruptly when she realized what she was saying and saw Rachel looking at her suspiciously.

Duck took a step back. "Eh, nothing! Never mind what I said! Hahaha!" She waved her hands about her in a vain attempt to dismiss her previous statements. However Rachel wasn't buying any of it and she breathed a deeply pained sigh that cut off Duck's flood of excuses.

"I don't how what exactly this is about, but the two of you coming here tonight...this has something to do with Fakir's work with the mob, doesn't it?"

At those words, Duck's shoulders drooped and she looked away from Rachel. "I-I promised him not to say anything...I'm sorry, Rachel..."

Rachel shook her head, her lips drawing thin with concern. "No...it's not your fault." She sighed heavily. "I just wish...I just wish he'd be able to let it go and move on."

"Let go of what?" Duck wondered aloud.

Rachel turned to Duck. "His parents' death," she said, her gentle voice laced with sorrow, "You see, Duck, Fakir's parents died because they were murdered."

Duck's eyes opened wide at this revelation and she repeated the last word with disbelief. "M-murdered?"

"It happened the year after I first met Fakir. From what the police told us the mob had been harassing them because Uncle Antonio refused to pay them protection money. On the night they died two armed mobsters had broken into their home. Uncle Antonio must have had heard them shortly after they got inside the house, because he'd put up a struggle before they gunned him down. Auntie Amira had tried to run out of the house with Fakir but they shot her before she could make it to the door. Afterwards they had tried to destroy the evidence by..."

Here Rachel's voice cracked, and as tears welled up in her eyes she had to take a deep breath to collect herself before she could continue. "They tried to destroy the evidence by pouring lye on their bodies. It was absolutely barbaric what they did to them. And the worst part was that Fakir was still..." At this point Rachel could no longer go on, clasping her hands over her mouth.

Revulsion was etched on Duck's face. Lye. Poured over the victims' bodies to eliminate the evidence. And Fakir, who somehow made it out of that lurid slaughter alive…

The image of the scar burned across Fakir's bare back came to Duck's mind, and with a shudder, the color drained from her face as she realized its brutal origins.

"Is that how Fakir got those scars on his back?" Duck whispered, and Rachel's eyes widened.

"How could you know this?" Rachel murmured in astonishment. "He's never told _anyone_ about it."

"I..." Duck had no answer to give. She glanced helplessly down at the marbled floor, her hands grasped tightly over her chest.

Rachel looked at Duck for a long moment before seeming to accept the fact for what it was. "No, you're right. Even though the neighbors had called the police after hearing the noise no one dared enter their home until the police arrived. When they finally did, they thought the entire family had perished until an attentive officer noticed Fakir was still breathing. He was rushed to the hospital, but by then the lye had done its damage. It was a miracle he pulled through the surgeries at such a young age, especially considering the extent of his injuries."

"But they caught those men in the end, right?" Duck asked hopefully. "Someone must've seen them!"

However Rachel shook her head. "It was very late when this happened, and if anyone did see anything they were too scared to come forward. Fakir saw the men but did not get a good look at their faces, so no one was ever identified or formally charged."

Duck was at a loss for words as she began to feel nauseated and lightheaded from these gruesome images. Rachel placed steadying hands on the girl's shoulders, and Duck looked into the singer's face.

"I don't know what has happened tonight, but when I found Fakir he looked the same as when I first saw him in the hospital…like a soulless, empty shell. Seeing a child like that, it's something I will never forget. My parents and I, we thought if we could try to replace the family he'd lost, Fakir would eventually return to his old self, back to the little boy who read detective stories and wanted nothing more than become the greatest sleuth there ever was."

Rachel's eyes closed despondently. "But he never returned to being the lighthearted child we had known before, and as he grew older he wanted to study law and become a police officer. I supported him in his dream because I believed having a goal would help him move forward in life, but I was wrong."

She opened her eyes that were now full of apprehension. "He wanted to become an officer because he never forgave _himself_. He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't help arrest as a child. But I'm worried that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the wound to heal.

"That's why Duck, I'm begging you," Rachel's hands gripped onto Duck's and she gazed imploringly at the younger woman. "Please watch over him. He wouldn't tell me anything for fear of getting me involved, and I understand that. But he trusts you and relies on you; that much I can see."

Her brows creased more deeply. "Though I might not know what he's planning, I'm afraid it's something extremely dangerous. He thinks he can do everything on his own, but he can't. No one can. So please…be there for him where I can't be."

As Duck rode the Essex alone back to the apartment, she could not stop thinking about Rachel's words. As the car stopped in front of the familiar snow covered steps of her building, Duck stepped out and looked up at the window next to her own. The thin curtains were open but there was no light coming from beyond the dark window pane.

…_He trusts you and relies on you…_

Duck recalled Rachel's words as she quietly climbed the stairs of her apartment building. Fakir had never asked for her help, and always insisted she did things his way. But he had always been there to protect her, just as he had stated he would do. Didn't that count for something? He had found her in a crowd of thousands, despite the odds, had supported her when she doubted herself, however indirect his words might have been. Sure he was a jerk and a nuisance, but Duck was forced to admit, he was someone she could rely on.

And to Duck's own surprise, she also trusted him in return. She trusted him to be there for her when she needed him, and had his invisible support when she faltered. So shouldn't she do the same for him?

As she reached her floor, sounds echoing across the silent hallway pulled Duck away from her thoughts, and the familiar tilts and scratches of a gramophone record drifted faintly through the air. Duck walked up to Fakir's door and heard the music wafting through the crack underneath it. She rapped the door once and strained to hear any movement from within, but none came.

Trying again, Duck waited once more but there was again no response. Giving the door knob a twist, Duck found it locked, yet still there was no response from inside the apartment, save for the ghostly timbre of the piano record.

At this point, upon recalling Rachel's description of Fakir's behavior, Duck began to worry. What if something had happened to him? The fear nagging at her, Duck looked down at the carpet underneath her feet. Before she had time to reconsider, she'd bent down, pulled out the spare key from its hiding place, and inserted it into the lock.

With a quiet click, Duck pushed opened the door and the heavy smell of tobacco assaulted her senses. Suppressing the urge to cough from the heavy smoke, she stepped into the dark, smoke filled apartment.

Her shoes whispering on the floor, Duck made her way to the source of the music and it was there that she found Fakir, sitting by the window, a half burnt cigarette forgotten in his hand. His tailcoat, waistcoat, and tie had been discarded at the end of the bed closest to him, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone despite the chill permeating the room. Fakir seemed unaware of her presence, merely staring unblinkingly out the window pane. Duck grimaced at the ash tray filled with spent cigarettes.

Examining Fakir's expression, Duck could see why Rachel had been so alarmed.

During the flu epidemic when she had gone to the hospital to fetch medicine for her mother, Duck had seen soldiers; men with their bodies battered and broken, with hollow eyes that stared into nothingness for hours on end, no longer seeming connected to the world around them.

The Fakir before her reminded Duck of those broken soldiers she'd seen in the hospital ward. She'd always known Fakir to be alert and active, always moving forward. Now he slouched as though crushed by some invisible burden, disheartened and utterly defeated. The sight sent a painful jolt through Duck's chest.

"What are you doing here?"

Duck jumped at the abrupt sound of Fakir's voice. He did not look at her and continued to gaze sightlessly into the night.

Shifting her eyes to the side, Duck fidgeted uneasily and said, "Well, you rushed off without any explanation. Also, Rachel's worried about you..." the usually frank redhead trailed off, "...she said you didn't look too well."

"What's it to you?" Fakir snapped and Duck winced at the sharpness of his voice.

"R-Rachel…she told me, about what happened to your parents. I-I'm really sorry about what happened to them…"

Fakir cursed under his breath before smashing the cigarette into the ashtray with unnecessary force. Standing up sharply, he fixed a pair of menacing eyes on her and bellowed, "I _don't_ need your pity! Now get out!"

"_That's not it!_"

Crystal-clear blue eyes gazed up to meet his startled green ones. Duck was evidently surprised by her own boldness, though when she spoke again her voice was quieter but no less determined.

"Fakir, I know you want to put these people behind bars more than anything in the world, that you want justice served for your family, but you're going about it all by yourself. You told me once that the Corvo gang is extremely dangerous, and yet you _insist_ on tackling them on your own. This case is something you can't freely talk about with other people, I understand that, but Rachel is worried sick about you," Duck beseeched him. "Even if you can't tell her about the case you can't ignore her concern for you. It's not fair to her."

Having expressed her feelings in full, Duck fell silent. In the background the song on the record ended, giving way to the skipping noise of the stylus on celluloid.

"I can't tell her, Duck." Fakir dropped back down into his chair and closed his eyes.

"Is it because it's related to the case?"

"No, it's much more than that." Fakir opened his eyes and Duck saw that the anger in them had faded, revealing the pain and sorrow she had seen earlier. Slowly, Fakir uttered, "I…I know who Principe is."

Confused, Duck frowned. "You mean the person called Mytho?"

"Yes. We grew up together. He is—no, was—my best friend."

Duck did not understand what Fakir was saying at first until she remembered Rachel had mentioned a boy who had left to study ballet and with whom they hadn't had any contact with for years. But was that possible?

_There must be some sort of mistake,_ Duck thought, _like a case of mistaken identity or something!_

Yet Duck could not shake the memory of Principe—or rather, Mytho—uttering Elsa's name. She had wondered why this elegant but dangerous man would know her mother, but if he had at one time been a ballet student, in particular a student of her mother's, then it was plausible he had mistaken her for Elsa.

This thought, in addition to everything else she'd uncovered that evening, was making Duck feel faint, and so she found her way to the end of Fakir's bed and sat down on the thin mattress. Bowing her head, Duck squeezed the beaded purse in her hands, pushing the tiny beads against the skin of her numb digits.

"But…how could that be?" she whispered, incredulous.

Recalling the moment when she saw Principe's face clearly for the first time, Duck remembered his wide-eyed expression, a face not at all like that of a killer. But there had been an edge to his eyes, and while Duck had lived a mostly sheltered life she'd seen men in her neighborhood with eyes like that, men whom had lived a rough and turbulent life. No one was born with hardened eyes like that, and thus Duck knew this person named Mytho must have once been an innocent as well. Whatever could have taken away that innocence, Duck couldn't begin to imagine, but she was sure that his hardened amber eyes at one time must've been warm and gentle.

With that thought in mind, Duck lifted her face towards Fakir, and asked softly, "What kind of a person was he, was Mytho?"

Fakir exhaled a long sigh and slouched in his chair. "He loved ballet more than anything else in the world. In fact it was because of ballet that we met in the first place." The flame from a lighter flickered for a moment in the dim apartment as Fakir lit another cigarette. The dark haired detective brought the cigarette to his lips and drew long on it before exhaling it in a cloud of steel-colored smoke. Staring at the shifting wisps of smoke, memories of a small town emerged from the haze as though shrouded in a morning mist.

It was a community tucked between a series of gently rolling hills and intersected by two thoroughfares and a railroad. Due to the abundance of goods and people that passed through it, the town was prosperous and well-connected to the outside world.

A few blocks from the busy Main Street was a roll of well manicured houses. Fakir, then a dark haired boy, looked out the sitting room window and back inside the house, and upon perceiving the coast was clear, hurried to the door where he—with a hardbound book tucked under one arm—dashed down the street and around a corner. It wasn't until he made it to the center of town did he slow down and meld into the crowd. Few people on the street paid him any mind, and those who did were perplexed by this dark skinned boy as he seemed to wander aimlessly about, but with an undefined purpose.

He had come to live in this town only very recently after having been discharged by the hospital. His uncle's family was kind to him; but save for his older cousin Rachel everyone around him treated him as though he was a glass figurine to be cushioned and protected from the world. His aunt had forbidden him to leave the house for anything more than a short walk each day in the belief that it was "bad for one with a fragile constitution," and had further arranged for a family friend to come in as a tutor during the afternoons so Fakir would not fall behind in his studies until he was well enough to attend school again.

It did not help that the street they lived on was noisy and loud during the day, making it impossible for young Fakir to concentrate on his reading. Even though he had grown up in the city, the bookstore his father ran was located on a quiet street, with little to moderate traffic during the busy hours of the day. The thought of his former home made the boy bite his lips and he held the book in his hands ever more tightly.

Roaming away from the din of the crowds and the railroad station, Fakir headed south until he was nearly at the edge of town. There he found a small cluster of houses and buildings at the base of a short hillock, where otherwise the area was secluded and quiet. Finding the place to his satisfaction, young Fakir made his way up the hill side that stood before him.

As the morning sunlight passed over the top of the mound the boy blinked at the dazzling light. When he opened them his eyes were met with a bright pale figure sitting on the lush grass.

Surprised, Fakir gasped, and the pale figure turned around and their eyes met. The dark haired boy blinked at the other figure, a boy whom appeared about the same age as himself but was of such lithe and delicate features that for a second he wondered if this stranger was some supernatural being, like those he'd read about in fairytales.

Clearing his throat and awkwardly breaking eye contact, Fakir sat down on the grass and opened the book he had carefully transported. Though he tried to maintain his focus on his reading, Fakir could feel the other boy glancing curiously at him, and the feeling of being watched made it impossible for him to concentrate on the text in front of him.

Finally, after several minutes the fair haired youth spoke in a voice so soft that the wind nearly carried it away. "What are you reading?"

Fakir turned, saw the other staring at him expectantly with wide eyes, and answered severely, "It's called _A Study in Scarlet_. It's a mystery novel," he added.

"Oh." The other boy nodded and seemingly content with the answer, turned his gaze to the sight of the houses and farms below them. Seeing his companion's curiosity had been satisfied, Fakir firmly returned his attention back to his book.

He became so engrossed that he had forgotten about the presence of the other boy when the stranger suddenly stood up, turned, and ran down the hill. Startled and perplexed by the other boy's sudden departure, Fakir closed his book shut and pulled himself up to his feet, watching as the white haired figure disappeared beyond a small grove of trees. Natural curiosity and his love of mystery goading him forward, before Fakir knew it he was hurtling down the hillock in the other boy's wake, book in hand.

It did not take him long to locate the fair haired boy. The lithe figure had stopped beside the window of a whitewashed building and with his hands resting on the edge of the windowsill, was now looking intently through its glass panels, the tinkle of faint piano music emitting from them.

Fakir, standing behind a tall chestnut tree, peered through the window and spotted a group of four or five young women wearing pointe shoes and long skirts of tulle all standing by a wooden barre, dancing to the tune that trickled out from their studio as their instructor watched. The white haired boy was absorbed in watching the lesson, and after looking at the dancers for in a while would bend his legs or position his arms to mirror their moments.

This strange game of hide and seek went on for more than an hour, and just as Fakir was beginning to wonder how much longer the other boy was going to stay the distant toll of a bell rang through the air. At the resounds of the bell the white haired boy turned and dashed off again, this time back towards town. Fakir blinked, and then snatched up the book he had put down on the ground and sprinted to catch up with him.

He followed the boy, skirting behind houses and shops, cutting through ally ways until eventually he found himself in front of a small church, identified only by a simple cross displayed above its double doors and a small bronze plaque beneath it which read "Saint Vitus Orphanage and Refuge"*.

The church bell was tolling still, and Fakir saw the boy he'd been following run up to its doors where a sister was waiting. The sister said something to the boy who smiled and nodded. Then, to Fakir's surprise, the fair haired boy turned around, looked straight at him and waved, before disappearing into the building with the sister.

When Fakir got home that day he found his aunt by the door, displeased and worried. She had scolded him while his uncle only smiled thoughtfully and commented how Fakir's energy reminded him of his younger brother. Fakir on the other hand, could not stop thinking about the strange boy he'd met that day. Why was he watching the ballet class? Was he trying to learn ballet? Did he live at the orphanage?

Fakir felt a sense of excitement at having met this mysterious boy, like he'd become the detective he'd always dreamed about becoming, someone who had stumbled upon a mystery and he was the one who would unravel its secrets. Those were the thoughts that lulled him to sleep that night.

The next day, after a long discussion between his aunt and uncle and a brief telephone consultation with the doctor, Fakir was told he'd be allowed to leave the house for his reading but that he'd have to return by noon and not to do anything exceedingly strenuous. How anyone expected an eight year old boy to adhere to the latter commandment was not Fakir's concern. All he knew was that he was now free.

He returned to the hillock and again found the white haired boy there. They met day after day like this for over a week. Sometimes Fakir would arrive first and sometimes there would be no ballet lesson at the studio, and the white haired boy would simply lie on the hillside, or practice the steps he'd learned earlier, with Fakir as his silent audience. No words besides those spoken on their first day passed between them but both boys seemed content with the other's silent companionship. Fakir learned from observation that it was the sound of the piano from the dance studio which signaled to the boy that there would be a lesson for the day and from the gossip of the townsfolk that his companion was indeed an orphan. He had been left on the steps of St. Vitus as an infant. In his swaddling cloth was a scrap of paper with the word "Mytho" written on it, and so the townspeople took to calling him by that name. Everyday Mytho had to return to the orphanage at a specific time to perform his chores, but as long as he performed them dutifully he would be allowed to slip out for a few hours in the morning to study ballet.

And so it was on one particular day Fakir looked up when Mytho dashed off in the direction of the ballet school. Fakir did not follow him, but watched from his vantage point atop the hill as his nameless companion studied the dancers, his movements elegant and fluid, and it was not hard to imagine him as on the other side of the window, practicing with the rest of the class.

Fakir wondered silently how long had this orphan boy been studying as such in secret for him to have become so proficient. It crossed his mind to go ask the boy in person, but a chorus of loud and jeering voices jarred him from his thoughts.

A group of three boys, all about Fakir's own age, had come upon the pale haired boy. Mytho dashed away from the studio window and made a run for the open hillside, but the little bullies quickly surrounded him and started to fling pebbles at him that they'd stored in their pockets. Mytho, caught in their trap, could only cover his head with his arms and meekly endure the ordeal.

Fakir slapped his book close and rushed down the hill. As he came upon them he screamed, "Stop! What did he ever do to you?"

The tallest of three, and whom Fakir judged to be the ringleader, stayed his hand when he saw Fakir. Cocking his head at the poor boy huddled on the grass, the tall boy said, "This little brat's a pervert. He comes here everyday to look up the girls' skirts!"

"Yup, and this time we caught him in the act so we're gonna teach him a lesson!" croaked a stout boy.

"No he's not!" Fakir shouted back as he stood between the bullies and the fair haired boy. "He's watching them because he's trying to learn ballet!" However that only elicited a chorus of jeering laughter from the three offenders.

"Oh, ain't that something! So he's a sissy too!"

The bullies laughed even harder, but Fakir's fists clenched and before any of the boys had time to react, Fakir had picked up a pebble off the ground and threw it straight at the ringleader's face, striking him right between the eyes. The bully's legs instantly turned to jelly and he crumpled to the ground, instantly quelling the laughter of his two cronies.

"What the hell—! Ow!"

The two remaining bullies found themselves under fire as Fakir threw the pebbles they'd been tossing earlier right back at them. Screaming with fright, they turned and ran, dragging their half dazed leader with them.

Fakir flung one last stone their way as the bullies disappeared around a building and he stood there, panting from the effort.

He heard a rustling noise behind him. "You have really good aim."

Fakir found himself blushing profusely at the compliment and turned to face the white haired boy. "It was just a lucky shot. Are you alright?" He noticed that the boy's clothes were dirtied and welts were already forming where Mytho had been struck.

The pale haired boy nodded. "Thank you, um…"

Fakir reached out a hand to help the other boy up. "My name's Fakir, and you're Mytho, right?"

Taking Fakir's outstretched hand, the boy pulled himself back onto his feet and smiled. "Yes, but how did you know?"

Fakir straightened his back and proclaimed, "I'm going to be a detective, so I…"

Here Fakir faltered and he admitted sheepishly, "…Well, I just asked around."

"Still, thank you for saving me back there. But you should be careful; those boys come around here every few days. I usually try to avoid them, but that's not always possible," Mytho shrugged his shoulders and sighed resignedly.

"In that case, I'll protect you."

Mytho's head shot up in surprise. "Eh? But…why?"

Fakir strode over and picked up the book he'd dropped in the grass. "Because a detective works for justice and protects the people." Looking back at Mytho, he said with conviction that belied his young age, "You do what you want to do, and leave those bullies to me."

Mytho considered this and asked tentatively, "Um, so does that make us friends, then?"

Now it was Fakir's turn to be surprised as Mytho explained, "The church's Father told me that a friend is someone you'd share your adversities with. So if you're willing to shoulder my trouble for me, then doesn't that make you my friend?"

Fakir blinked several times thinking it over before he gave a vigorous nod, his cheeks flushed and a smile emerged on his lips. "Yes, it does! We can be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! Every detective needs a friend to watch his back for him, so while I watch your back, you can watch mine."

Mytho nodded in turn, but gave Fakir a confused look. "But, who are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? I've never heard of them before."

Fakir looked at Mytho as if he'd just pronounced that he did not know what the sun was. He gasped incredulously, "Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective of all time! In the stories Dr. Watson is his friend and biographer, and they solve crimes no one else could solve. You've honestly never heard of him before?"

"The church's Father only has books on theology and history, so no," Mytho replied feebly.

Fakir grabbed Mytho's hand and began pulling him back towards town. "I have all the books and I'll lend them to you. Come on!"

Mytho stumbled and gasped, "But are you sure?"

Fakir turned to look at him, and smiled. "Of course it's alright; we're friends after all."

At this Mytho smiled back and speed up his pace to match Fakir's eager footsteps.

* * *

"What happened after that?"

From the bare wooden floor of Fakir's bedroom Duck looked up towards the window. The moon had risen high in the night sky, drawing a long column of pale blue light in through the glass. Fakir sat facing the moonlight, deep shadows cast across his face.

"After that…" Fakir tiled his head up to look at the orb of light shinning through the dusty window pane. "We started meeting up everyday at the hill until I reenrolled in public school, but even then we continued to see each other every day. I went to see him at the orphanage sometimes. I would read, and he would practice in the chapel when it was empty. He would practice for hours, and people in the orphanage saw that too. The Father who ran the orphanage recognized his talent and wanted him to attend proper lessons, but the orphanage didn't have the extra money to afford to pay for them. Then when I was 15 the Father passed away. We found out at his funeral that he'd left a portion of his will to send Mytho to a respected dance school here in the city."

"And so he came here, to New York to study," Duck finished.

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "Yes, but I lost contact with him after that. To think he's now…" he exhaled sharply, a long thin trail of smoke emitting from his lips.

Duck knew what Fakir wanted to say. Neither of them could understand how the innocent boy Fakir had known in his childhood could become the cold blooded mobster they had seen that evening.

What would it be like to know your friend was guilty of a horrible crime, particularly a crime you were in charge of solving? If she was a detective and the perpetrators were Lillie or Pique, would she be able to arrest them? Duck asked these questions to herself. But Duck could not see her friends being guilty of anything more harmful than reading illicit romance novels and gossiping while at work, and thinking of herself as a detective was laughable even to Duck.

Duck watched as Fakir walked over to the Victrola and placed the needle back onto the record. With the moonlight on his back, she briefly noticed a dark patch above his shirt collar before it was covered again when Fakir's ponytail fell across it. Duck frowned as it took a second for her to realize she was staring at an edge of the hidden scar that stretched across Fakir's back.

She'd always thought it strange for a man, particularly a police officer, to sport a ponytail and had thought it was an outward expression of Fakir's independent attitude. It wasn't until that moment that she realized he was using it to cover up the tip of his scar that a shirt collar could not conceal.

_He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't as a child…and that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the scar to heal._

Would Fakir ever be able to get past his family's murder? Would anyone else be able to? And now that Fakir knew his best friend was associated with the very organization that likely had a hand in his family's death, it would be even more difficult for Fakir to let go of the past.

He was at an impasse, Duck realized. Dropping the case would forever deny the justice long overdue to his family and letting the largest and most dangerous criminal organization in the city go unchecked. Continuing with the case would force Fakir to arrest his best friend, who would either face a life sentence or the electric chair.

Duck looked back at Fakir, who stood watching the Victrola as it came to life. "What are you going to do, Fakir?" she said quietly, the tune of the recorded piano sounding eerily like a funeral dirge.

Face still turned away from her, Fakir did not respond until after a long pause, and then finally whispering, "I don't know."

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, and instead the melody from the record permeated the room.

Duck touched the pendant at her throat. Up until now she had always tried to distance herself from the case she had been witness to, fighting Fakir's insistence on serving as a witness with avoidance and anger, hoping that by disassociating from it the memories would go away and she could return to a normal life.

But the truth of the matter was that regardless of whether she wanted it or not, she had become a part of a story that had turned best friends against one another. And as much as Duck hated to acknowledge it, her decision as a witness could tip the scale in one of two paths, both of which had cruel consequences for the detective.

It was up to her to break this impasse, but Duck did not know what choice was the right one to make. This doubt could not be so easily overcome, and Duck regretted that she did not have the courage to make a decision.

_The jewel's name is 'Courage', it is a gem made of two._

_Do the individual stones themselves have names?_

_Yes they do, and someday you will find out what they are, Duck._

Duck started at the sudden recollection. She had completely forgotten about the jewel Edel had shown her until now, when the memory had come back unbidden. "Someday you will find out what they are…" Duck quietly repeated those words to herself.

Across the room, Fakir looked at her and Duck looked up to meet his eyes.

"You know Fakir, Miss Edel once showed me a jewel she called 'Courage'," Duck told him. "She said it was 'a gem made of two'. I didn't understand what she meant when she said that and I'm still not sure what it means, but…"

Duck took a deep breath, "Maybe courage is having the bravery and perseverance to choose, and then walk the path that you know is true to your heart. I'm not particularly smart or brave or strong, just an ordinary shop girl leading an ordinary life. But I think everyone, no matter who they are, should do what they believe is right."

Fakir stood staring at Duck, whose voice grew as she spoke with increasing self-assurance, "There has to be a reason for Mytho to have abandoned his dream, Fakir. From the way you described him he seemed like the kind of person who wouldn't hurt a fly. Something must've happened during his time here in the city that changed him."

_Could it have something to do with Ma?_

Duck frowned at the sudden thought, but brushed it aside and continued, "I know justice and the law are important things, and I know that we have to arrest him, but we should also find out what it was that led him down this path."

Duck stood up from the bed and tread over to Fakir's side. "Once we've arrested him, and once we learn what his reason is, if at that time you decide you still want to pursue the case, I will be there to testify in court."

The moonlight reflected in her wide, resolute blue eyes bespoke her conviction. There was no more fear, no more hesitation, simply the lucidity of one who had decided on a path and was willing to walk its length, no matter the consequences.

Fakir's heart softened and he was once again astonished by the depth of this young woman. For someone so small and seemingly insignificant to have made such a bold choice could not have been easy, as Fakir remembered all too clearly the signs of distress she'd shown when he first revealed to her the scope of what she had gotten caught up in.

Then, what of himself, a police detective who'd sworn to uphold justice and righteousness, and who still carried the cross of a crime where justice was long overdue? It was not so much about choosing between the bond of their friendship and justice for his family that had left him paralyzed; rather, it was the baffling nature of an incomprehensible betrayal. But unlike crime, betrayal happened for a reason, and it was this notion that Duck had awakened Fakir to.

Though Mytho had renounced their brotherhood, by considering the contrast between his old friend's current and former selves, Duck made the assertion that a catalyst must've been involved to bring about such a dramatic change. Even if Fakir could not change the past, as a detective he could uncover the mysteries of what had taken place in that past.

_Funny… isn't that what a detective is supposed to do in the first place?_

Fakir closed his eyes for a moment and sighed briskly, making Duck cock her head slightly to one side, half surprised and half confused.

Glancing back at his neighbor, Fakir could not help but find it ironic that she was the one to remind him about the heart of his profession. It certainly wouldn't be easy, and Fakir wondered, when (and if) he ever caught Mytho, if he would still once again meet the boy he'd grown up knowing, if he was still within the man he had met this evening.

But he wouldn't get that answer until he came face to face with Mytho again, and so no matter what choices he might make in the end, this was the one objective Fakir was now certain of.

* * *

A/N * I choose St. Vitus for the name of the orphanage because St. Vitus is the patron saint of dancers (but also of actors, comedians, and epileptics). The exact circumstances of his patronage are unclear, but in 16th century Germany some people would dance in front of a statue of St. Vitus on his feast day (which, by the way, is June, 15th) with the belief it would give them a year's worth of good health. The dance somehow became associated with the neurological disorder chorea (as in "choreography") and was called "St. Vitus Dance". This connection with "dancing" led to his patronage of entertainers and dancers in particular.

Updates will be coming slowly as I'm busy working on my graduate school advancement. I won't stop writing completely, but alas, life's priorities must be attended to first.

And lastly, a big "thank you" to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The silent, frozen cityscape outside the bedroom window could not have been more different than what Rue felt within herself. Cooped up in her father's house on Park Avenue where she and Mytho had stayed the night, Rue turned sharply away from the window and reached for the silver cigarette box next to the settee. Restless and burning with agitation, the raven-haired actress lit a cigarette—without even bothering to get out her ivory cigarette holder—and began puffing on it to calm her nerves.

After arriving at her father's residence, she and Mytho were instructed by the butler to go directly to her father's study. There within the dark room sat the head of the Corvo family, his aged face partially concealed behind the shadow cast by the lone table lamp on his massive oak desk.

"Why have you called us back in such a hurry, Daddy? What's happened?" Rue asked, hurrying over to the senior patriarch while Mytho closed the door behind them.

"This," the old man said tersely and flung towards her a photograph he had been grasping in his hand.

Rue picked up the photo from his desk, studied it, and turned back to her father. "Who is this?"

"This," Don Corvo said in a rasping voice, as Rue handed the picture to Mytho, "is the man who is out to ruin us."

Mytho looked dispassionately at the picture of Fakir in his hand. It was a snapshot of Fakir on an unidentified street, looking down at his wristwatch as he stood, apparently waiting for a streetcar.

"What do you mean, 'ruin us'?" Rue asked her father quietly, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.

Taking the picture back from Mytho, Don Corvo explained, "His name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York City Police Department who's been snooping around our business for the past year. Our sources within the police force tell me he doesn't have much evidence against us, even if he is an adamant young fool. Still, I have been keeping tabs on his work nonetheless, to ensure that he stays on his side of the line. It wasn't much of a surprise to me therefore when the investigation into Alphonse's case was assigned to him. But then, recently, I discovered this."

Don Corvo slapped a pamphlet down in front of them. Rue's eyes drifted across its cover page, and her eyes widened sharply when she recognized it as the guest list for _The Bartered Bride_. Prominent members of the Metropolitan Opera and its board members were sent copies of the guest list before any major event, and Rue had never paid it much attention. This time though she picked it up and scrutinized the list from top to bottom, and lo and behold, she found the name "Fakir Romeiras" listed in the fifth column.

"I had been getting dressed for the opera when I glanced through this and noticed his name," Don Corvo said in his low, hoarse voice, now growling with an undertone of suspicion. "Why else would an uncultured junior detective suddenly be interested in going to an opera that his primary suspects happen to be attending?"

As Rue placed the booklet carefully back onto his desk, Don Corvo continued. "At last minute's notice I skipped the performance and had Tony fetch you two, in case the detective was there looking for Mytho as well."

Rue bit her lip, her bare arms folded in front of her chest. "Do you think we should get rid of him? What if he already knows about Mytho's involvement?" The normally composed actress suggested nervously while Mytho looked on with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Not yet," Don Corvo said firmly, "we need to discern just how much he really knows before we risk taking major actions. Alphonse's case is causing enough trouble as it is."

He sat back in his chair, stroking his chin pensively, his unseen eyes ostensibly gazing askance. "However, it troubles me that our 'friends' in Tammany Hall* aren't doing a very good job on keeping a tight leash on their dogs. I'll need to have a word with them soon; with elections coming up next year, I think they will be keen on listening," he said with a bare hint of a smirk on his lips. "In the meantime I've ordered Orecchie* to start following this fellow closely and see what exactly he's up to, and if he's onto something that we don't know about yet.

"As for the two of you," Don Corvo turned to Rue and Mytho, "keep a low profile for a while—especially you, Mytho. Have Tommy take over for you for now, though do check on him to make certain that it remains running smoothly." Don Corvo paused, before he added emphatically, "We must make sure that _everything_ goes as planned."

And so, as per her father's orders, the next day Rue had cancelled all of her appointments for the coming week. Her agent had been aghast at her decision and begged to at least know the reason for her sudden absence, but she had only given him a vague answer that she was not feeling well and wanted some time to rest, before hanging up on him and returning to her cigarettes. The explanation she had given her agent was not a complete lie: her constant anxiety was taking its toll on her and she had barely been able to get any sleep the night before.

Mytho on the other hand did not seem to share her unease, or for that matter, take much notice of her at all from that time they had arrived at the Corvo's main house the previous night. She had woken up early this morning and had found his half of the bed empty. Her father was gone as well, and while both men had returned a few hours later, neither of them gave any explanation as to their prior whereabouts.

When Rue had asked Mytho about it, he did not answer, aloof and cold like the winter air that abraded the residents of this city—a sharp contrast to the dark, teasing attitude he had taken to her the night before. Rue wondered what had caused the sudden shift in his behavior, but before Rue could inquire further, Mytho retreated to the study, telling her he had to make some calls to discuss important business matters.

Rue knew better than to ask her father about the family business. If there had ever been anything necessary for her to know, she would have already been informed of it. To go out of her way to inquire into matters would be to invite a harsh reprimand of her self-indulgent prying—a consequence that, knowing her father's temperament, she didn't care to chance.

Nonetheless, it still frustrated Rue that she should be left out of the loop when her family—her entire world—was under serious threat. And Mytho, the Mytho who had always been so open and honest with her, was now as shuttered as everyone else.

Glancing at the clock, Rue realized it had been more than two hours since Mytho had shut himself up in the study, and she wondered what was taking him so long. Snuffing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the windowsill, she turned her heels towards the study.

In front of the closed double doors, she listened for a conversation but heard none. She twisted the doorknob, pushing open the door quietly, and saw her beau sitting in the leather chair with his back toward her, his face facing the same gray cityscape she had been looking out across moments earlier. His eyes were downcast at something in his hand.

Rue walked into the room, and at the click of her heels on the smooth Italian marble floor Mytho's eyes looked up. Closing his fingers over the object in his hand, he tucked it away inside the inner pocket of his coat.

"I thought you were on the phone," Rue accosted him.

"The business I had is settled. I was thinking it over, that's all," Mytho said, standing up. "We've always had to maintain a cautious dance with the police, a pas de deux, you might say," the corners of Mytho's lips curved faintly at the metaphor, his back still to Rue, "but we've always been the ones to lead. I wonder, about this detective Father mentioned…" he paused, "…if he has the potential to change the rules of this game of cat and mouse."

"That won't happen," Rue said staunchly, her crimson eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, facing the wall defiantly. "I won't allow anyone, much less a stupid two-bit gumshoe, to destroy what Daddy worked so hard to create."

Mytho chuckled and Rue looked at him askance. "Yes, but what could you do about it, Rue?" He finally turned to gaze at her with those eyes that were frozen over like the gray Manhattan winter, and asked with a cruel innocence, "What _can_ you do on your own without Father?"

Rue stood motionlessly as Mytho strolled past her, leaving the young woman behind with only the sensation of a passing breeze. She was vaguely aware of familiar voices in the hallway, but at that moment she could only brood over the tattered remains of the thin veneer of her confidence, ripped asunder by the blow of Mytho's words.

She had wealth, fame, and status, but how many of her achievements were her own and how many were thanks to the connections and strings of her father? Rue had never seriously considered it; or rather, she had ignored it and focused single-mindedly on getting whatever it was she desired. To have that question so brusquely thrown at her shook Rue to her core—and for the first time in her life, Rue questioned who, and what, she really was.

Was she the daughter of Don Corvo, or was she _just_ the daughter of Don Corvo? Who was she without her family's name? She was Rue, an ordinary girl with a talent for ballet. Without that money, without those connections, she would be nothing more than a lowly ballerina in red shoes who always dreamed of a place in the spotlight, forever out of her reach.

"What are you doing here, Rue?"

The rasping voice of Dominico Corvo startled Rue out of her wits. She gasped, whipping her head around, and found her father standing behind her; there was no sign of Mytho.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Daddy! I was just…I was just distracted."

"Evidently." Don Corvo took a note from his pocket and handed it to Rue. "This is no time to have your head up in the clouds, my daughter. An opportunity to tip the scales in our favor has just presented itself."

Perplexed, Rue held up the stationary in her hand. Written in the immaculate cursive of their senior butler, it read:

_Interview request with Miss Legnani._

_Autor Brahms, New York World._

_Tel. Manhattan 5361(*)_

* * *

_The New York World_ made its name reporting on the spectacles and commotions of the city, and the same buzz of activity was mirrored in the editorial floor of its Manhattan-based office. The constant footsteps, loud voices, ceaseless clickety-clack of typewriters and chorus of ringing telephones made it difficult to even have a conversation, much less think coherently.

Tucked in a corner of the cacophonous office was a small desk, at which sat Autor. With his elbow resting on his diminutive and altogether inadequate desk, the young reporter rested his chin on his palm, staring contemptuously at the typed manuscripts spread out in front of him. "Rudolf Valentino's marriage on the rocks," read one headline. "Forbidden Paradise: Pola Negri Brings Czarina to Life," advertised another.

Autor sighed in disgust, tossing aside the pen that had been sitting idly in his hand for the past hour. With the popularity of film and celebrity-culture increasing, seemingly exponentially, news agencies knew entertainment news equaled wider readership, and that equaled more profit. There were a dozen reporters like himself on this floor, whose job it was to cover the latest and most "sensational" stories coming out of Broadway and Hollywood. But if there was anything Autor detested most, it was writing about the day-to-day gossip concerning the idle habits of morally ambiguous starlets.

His job was made tolerable only by the occasional classical opera or orchestral concert premier he was asked to attend by his editor, as he was the only reporter in the department with advanced musical training and thus the authority and expertise to report on such performances. But those assignments were few and far between as traditional performing arts had in these days fallen out of popularity with the public, so that even these reports had degenerated into nothing more than lists of the latest fashion trends and celebrity blather.

Looking away from the manuscript on his desk and out the window at the city skyline, the overcast clouds like a dull blank canvas draped above the skyscrapers, Autor could only dream of publishing the kinds of stories he truly wished to report on. Stories that revealed the secrets of this oblivious metropolis, exposés that awakened people to the city's moral weaknesses. That was the reason he had joined this newspaper in the first place: its reputation of exposing the dark underbelly of the city for the world to see with their own eyes.

But as a junior reporter with no major headline under his belt, Autor had little choice in his work and had to accept whatever story the editors assigned for him. In fact, Autor recalled he had once been on the verge of quitting out of sheer frustration, when he had stumbled onto the Corvo story after overhearing a conversation between two co-workers. Both were senior reporters with the newspaper, and Autor had at the time happened to be transcribing a report near one of the men's desks. Then, another man walked up to the desk.

"How come you're back early, Charlie? I thought you were on that story down by the river."

The man at the desk shook his head. "Was, but the police wouldn't toss us so much as a bone. Even the longshoremen's lips were sealed tight as clams, though honestly I can't blame 'em."

"Why's that?" the other man asked, leaning towards Charlie with interest.

Here Charlie sighed and confided to his friend, "You know that I've seen a lot of nasty stuff, Allen, what with the war, and some of the stories I've covered before. But what I saw today ranks among some o' the most gruesome stuff I've seen yet."

Neither of the men had taken notice of Autor, and Autor had not been particularly interested in their conversation anyway. However that last sentence had caught Autor's attention, and out of curiosity and boredom, Autor listened more closely while keeping his eyes and his hands on his work.

"Geez, how bad was it, if it can make a seasoned veteran like you green in the face?" Allen joked.

"Lemme tell you, Allen," Charlie said, lowering his voice, "this Corvo racket, they're really not to be fooled around with." He looked up at Allen grimly. "That chap they brought up today from the river had been tied to a chair with its legs set in blocks of concrete before being tossed into the river."

"Sure, but uh, that doesn't sound all that…bad," Allen said after a pause to consider the right word choice.

"Oh, that's not all. It gets worse." Here Charlie leaned in and spoke in a voice so soft that Autor had to take his hands off his typewriter to keep the two men in earshot. He pretended to be examining his notes as he continued to listen.

"I hung around the dock after the body was pulled outta the water, hoping to get some interesting tid-bits, or maybe get the I.D. of the deceased, or something useful like that, you know? And it paid off when I heard one of the coppers shout that there was a wad of paper inside the dead man's mouth. Everybody came rushin' up to see what it said, but his jaw was shut so tight they had to pry the damn thing loose."

Charlie paused to take a breath, and then went on, "The police tried pushing the spectators back, but that's when they finally got the guy's mouth open and the paper dropped out. I saw then that the poor man's tongue had been cut clean off. And you know what was printed on that paper?"

By then Allen was starting to look unnerved. "Wha…what did it say?"

"It just said, '_snoop_'," Charlie said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The dead man must've been sticking his nose too far into Corvo's business to end up like this. I reckon it was a warning, to the rest of us."

Allen pursed his lips nervously. "You keep saying it's the Corvo's, but how'd you know it's not some other gang that did this?"

Charlie shook his head. "Oh trust me, it's them alright. The dock where they found the guy's in their territory. No one would admit it openly, but it's a common secret that they're the ones runnin' the show down there." He looked contemplative. "That's gotta be the reason none of the longshoremen wanted to talk to me, even after I offered them some incentives. They're probably scared stiff."

"So…are you gonna publish all that?" Allen asked incredulously.

"Me?" Charlie scoffed. "No way in hell! I sure don't wanna end up like that guy, a wet scarecrow with its tongue cut out." He shook his head slowly. "Nah, I'll still write up something for the editor to read, just for the record and all, but there's some parts of this story better left unwritten."

"That's the smart thing to do," Allen agreed. "It's wiser not to be messin' about with dicey business like that."

As the two reporters shifted topics to something more trivial, Autor couldn't stop pondering their conversation, even after the two reporters had left for the day. He just could not get that story out of his head. A story that was too dangerous even to tell other people? That was a story worth telling, indeed!

The morning following the conversation, first thing he had done was snap up a copy of the newspaper, still warm off the press, and quickly found Charlie's story. Sure enough, there was the lurid description of the body and the condition it was found, but only a vague reference that the man's death was gang related. Autor remembered sitting by his desk until late that night, the office having finally fallen silent as he mulled over the story and the shocking details that were cut from it.

What he believed in more than anything else was that the journalist's mission was to report the truth, no matter how horrifying or perilous it might be—because if none of them did, then who else would have the audacity to shine a light on the hidden ugliness of this troubled city? Yet he had just seen men, who were his seniors in position and experience, shy away from reporting the truth, letting the precious facts fall away into oblivion, discarded like refuse.

Autor had realized this was precisely the kind of story he had always wanted to work on, an earth-shattering piece of news that would surely stir up society, and it was just sitting there, begging to be told. At that moment, he decided to take it upon himself to research and tell the story of the criminal history of the Corvo family, even if he had to do it all on his own.

He knew he had to carry out his investigations clandestinely. Despite its absence in the papers, the name of Corvo kept sneaking into conversations both within the news office and on the streets, usually in whispers. Using the leads from these scattered discourses, Autor began documenting their earlier cases and accounts of similar crimes. Before long he had compiled a sizable folder of materials, and as the picture of the Corvo family developed, Autor's eagerness grew with it.

But his zealous giddiness had been short-lived as he realized the limitations of what he could learn without attracting unwanted attention on himself. Fakir's recent dismissal of Autor's work had only made things worse, reinforcing his belief that people were hopelessly blind to the truth, even if it was staring them right in the face. What was worse, without additional key bits of information, Autor feared his story might never see the light of day. The notion that all his hard work might be for nothing in the end was unbearable.

Desperate and resentful after his failed attempts to obtain Fakir's aid, Autor had decided to try one last resort to earn the cooperation of the police detective: blackmail.

Granted, Autor had immediate doubts about the idea when he first came across the news clipping about the murdered family. What if it was merely a coincidence and Fakir was unrelated to the victims? He would be making a grand fool of himself and that would only make the situation worse.

Fortunately, that concern had been readily placated by a visit to the New York City Department of Records. However, that still left Autor with a far greater problem, which was his own sense of justice. He had considerable qualms about coercing another man, even one whom he disdained, by using the death of his own family against him. Wouldn't doing so reduce him to the level of the very criminal he was trying to expose? But, if he left Fakir alone, his one link into the investigation would be lost, leaving him cold on the case without any other leads in sight.

Autor had contemplated this moral dilemma for many days as the date of the opera drew near. Even if he did not personally bring up the relationship between Fakir's family and the prosecution of the Corvos, Autor rationalized, surely when the case went to court the Corvos' lawyers would have dredged up this little fact and used it against the prosecution all the same? Autor knew the Corvos hired some of the best defense attorneys in the state, and so far they had been able to shoot down every case ever brought up against the Corvos. It was not inconceivable that when Fakir brought his case to court, the Corvo lawyers would have meticulously examined Fakir's background and consequently use the death of his parents to challenge the validity of his evidence due to conflict of interest.

If such a revelation was inevitable, then it was all the more imperative for Autor to publish his expose as soon as possible, before the Corvos could have time to dispute it in some fashion or another. The only question that had remained then was how Fakir would respond. Autor had imagined that if the detective's desire for revenge was strong enough, he would not jeopardize the Corvo case for the world, and Autor would be able to persuade him to work together for a common cause.

The easy part of the plan had been convincing his editor to let him attend the opera, as it was the first performance of the season, an occasion known to draw a large spectrum of the rich and influential crowd. Unfortunately for Autor, that had been the only part of his plan that had played out as he'd hoped.

His plan having backfired completely, Autor had left the gala soon after his encounter with Fakir, lest he run into the dark haired man again and the belligerent detective decided to make good on his threat. In his sullen state Autor had not paid enough attention to his surroundings and had bumped into another guest on his way out of the ballroom.

"Sorry—" Autor said absentmindedly when he looked up and saw a pair of wine red eyes.

"It's fine. Excuse me," Rue said with a harried but courteous smile and strode past him.

Autor had stared after the young lady as she disappeared into the crowd. Being a reporter, he had seen pictures and photos of Rue on many past occasions. Between that and the research he'd done on her family, Autor already knew quite a bit about the burgeoning actress. However, he had never met her in person before and something about her completely arrested his attention.

Having finally left the opera house, Autor sat sleeplessly in the desk within his small one-room apartment. He wasn't able to shake off the image of her vivid, garnet-colored eyes from his mind. What was so appealing to him about her, he wondered? Was it her beauty? Autor acknowledged that the actress had a sense of class that was missing from many of the frivolous starlets of his day, but this was not the first time he had seen her. Could it be her mannerisms, then? She seemed to have been in a hurry, her footsteps brisk as she entered the ballroom—and it was this recollection that got the gears in Autor's head turning.

He had realized during the performance that Don Corvo was absent, which was surprising as the Don liked to advertise himself as a patron of the arts. Perhaps Rue had been expecting her father, but when he still hadn't shown up for the gala she had grown worried.

Autor touched the tips of his fingers together and considered this idea. Something big must've happened for Don Corvo to miss a performance at the Met. The possible reasons for his absence were endless, and it was not impossible that the Don had suffered a stroke or something of that nature, given his advanced age.

But Autor had a gut feeling—a reporter's intuition, perhaps—that it had something to do with the crime family's dealings rather than any health issues the Don might have experienced. The image of Rue surfaced once again in Autor's mind, and he frowned at its intrusion. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? It was true that Rue was Don Corvo's only child, and it was well-known that she was very close to her father, but what would that…

Autor suddenly sat up in his chair. "Of course!" The exclamation reverberated slightly in his otherwise silent apartment studio.

If anyone would know what was concerning Don Corvo, it would be Rue. How much of his personal dealings the Don would divulge to his daughter, Autor could not be sure of, but he was convinced that the actress must have some intimate knowledge of the workings and goings of her father's organization.

It had to be a stroke of luck that he had ran into her at the gala. He could get closer than ever before to the source if he could secure an opportunity to talk with Rue, and with his assignment to write the review for _The Bartered Bride,_ that wouldn't be a problem. Editors always liked it when celebrities were quoted in a story. If he could use the review article for the opera as an excuse to interview Rue, then he might be able to probe for the reason of Don Corvo's absence from the opera.

The more Autor thought about the idea, the more excited he grew. He hardly slept at all that night and marched into the office early in the morning to put his new plan into action. When he finally managed to track down Rue's phone number, he was told by Rue's housekeeper that Miss Legnani had spent the prior night at her father's residence and that she would remain away from her house for a few days. When Autor asked for the phone number at the Corvo main residence, the housekeeper regretfully informed him that she was not allowed to give away such information, but that she would take a message from him and convey it to Miss Legnani. With no other choice, Autor gave her his name and number before hanging the receiver glumly on its hook.

Half a day later Autor found himself staring vacantly at drafts of articles, still waiting for a response, the likelihood of which was growing dimmer and dimmer with each passing minute. Could the Don's absence last night really be due to a medical reason after all? Autor grimaced. If that were the case, there was no chance Rue would agree to the interview…

The ringing of his telephone made Autor's head shoot back up. He blinked with disbelief at the instrument for a few seconds, filling up with a rush of nervous anticipation, before snatching the receiver off its hook.

"Hello?" he said quickly.

"Mr. Brahms? I have a call for you from Manhattan, from a Miss Odile Legnani," said the switchboard operator. "Could you wait a moment while I connect your call?"

At this Autor's heart began to beat even faster. He had hoped that he would get a response from her within the next few days, but Autor had not expected Rue Corvo _herself_ to call him back! Sitting up straight in his chair, Autor spoke into the receiver, his voice trembling a bit, "Y-yes, certainly. I'll wait."

In the few seconds it took for the call to come through, Autor took a deep breath to calm himself and brought the transmitter closer—until he could almost kiss it—in order to prevent others from over hearing, when suddenly the line cracked back to life.

"Hello, is this Mr. Autor Brahms?" replied the velvety feminine voice on the other end.

"Yes, yes, this is he! I am honored that you would find the time in your busy schedule to call me back, Miss Legnani."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Brahms. I received the message you left earlier this morning. I subscribe to your paper and I'd be happy to discuss my thoughts about the performance with you. But I must say I find telephone interviews to be so dreary; the connection can be horrid sometimes, so I would much more prefer to meet in person. Would that be all right with you?"

This was so much more than Autor could have hoped for that he was unable to conceal his excitement, and so he answered somewhat loudly, "Yes, of course! Certainly!"

With one hand still clutching the receiver and using his other free hand, Autor managed to dig out the notebook in his suit pocket and retrieve a pen off his desk. "Would tonight work for you, Miss Corvo? Let us say, eight-o'-clock, at the Hôtel Élysée. Would that suit you?"

"It suits. I will see you then," was her pithy reply before the line went dead.

Autor slowly placed the receiver back on its hook, then glanced down at the appointment he'd jotted down. Sitting back in his chair, Autor was seized with a giddiness that rivaled that of his first discovery of the Corvo case. Bumping into Rue Corvo must have been a stroke of great fortune, he thought to himself. The logical part of him reminded him that this was a dangerous maneuver on his part, meeting the spider in its parlor so to speak. But what great deeds were ever accomplished without taking some risks?

* * *

A/N Sorry it's taken me nearly six months to update this story. The good news is I passed my advancement exam and don't have to worry about that any more. The bad news is my work load at school hasn't let up even though the test is over, and I still have very little time to write. Still, I hope with one less thing to worry about at least it will make writing easier. Now, off to some notes!

*Tammany Hall was a political organization that once controlled much of the political machinery in New York City from the 18th century until the mid-20th century. It was famous (or rather, infamous) for being highly corrupt as well as being highly efficient.

* Orecchie is Italian for "ears".

*The New York World was a highly circulated newspaper founded by Joseph Pulitzer, who also founded the Pulitzer Prize, an award for achievements in journalism, literature, and music composition. The newspaper was famous for being a pioneer in what is known as "yellow journalism": news that was sensational, hyperbole, and scandalous. It also published important exposés including the deploring conditions of tenements in the early 20th century which led to reform. It's dual reputation for being gritty and a muckraker is what makes me think this newspaper would be a natural fit for the crusading reporter that is Autor in this universe.

*Back in the 1920's telephone numbers consisted of three letters followed by four numbers. The letters were usually the first three letters of the neighborhood or city the caller was in, for example "TRE" for a number in Tremont, New York City. It wasn't until the 1960's that telephone numbers in the US became all numbers.

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-proofing!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

A livered waiter pulled open the gilded doors of the Hôtel Élysée as Rue stepped out of her car. Slipping off her silver fox fur coat, she revealed a black velvet gown embedded with rhinestones and a silver sash at her waist, shimmering like the Milky Way cutting across a star-studded night sky. Her alluring appearance drew the eyes of patrons and employees alike as the maître d' escorted her to the table where Autor sat, waiting.

Rue assessed the bespectacled journalist. The "opportunity" her father had spoken of was this unremarkable, bookish young man. She had never heard of him before but it came as no surprise that her father—with his many eyes and ears—had, as she recalled the conversation they had the day before.

"He's a junior reporter with the World. Our people tell me he's been prying about our business lately; in other words, another young fool who doesn't know his boundaries," Don Corvo scoffed. "However, he spends his time loitering in the archives, and seems to have only picked up scant rumors and gossip so far"

"But doesn't that make him a threat, Daddy? How would he be an asset to us?" Rue asked, frowning.

"In the future, yes, he could cause us trouble. Should he ever uncover something truly detrimental to us then he will have to be taken care of. For now, as I have said, it's best not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Instead, I want you to use this opportunity to draw information from him and find out whether or not he's been in contact with the police. If that is so, we might need to quiet him sooner rather than later."

"But what if this meeting he's set up is a trap? We'd be walking right into it!"

Don Corvo laughed, a low cackling sound made all the more sinister by the old man's dark eyes. "Of course it is! These reporters, they're a sly breed, after all. But I trust that you can manage them, Rue?"

He clutched her shoulder firmly. "Don't disappoint me, Daughter."

That single sentence had propelled Rue here, as she stood in the dining room of the posh hotel, beside an empty seat at a table set for two.

_No,__ I __won__'__t __fail __you,__ Daddy_, Rue told herself sternly as Autor stood from his chair to greet her. _I__'__ll __show __Mytho __that __I__ can__ do __this __on __my __own!_

Rue pushed a well-practiced smile onto her lips and allowed Autor to pull back her chair for her before taking a seat.

"Thank you once again for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Miss Legnani," Autor said once he'd taken his seat again at the table.

"You're too kind, Mr. Brahms," Rue replied sweetly.

The table lapsed into silence as Rue daintily perused her menu while Autor pretended to look down at his own menu, sneaking occasional glances at the actress.

Now that Rue was here, Autor knew he would have to choose his words wisely, least he give his intentions away. The challenge at this point was how he would broach the subject of her father's absence from the opera without arousing suspicion. He had been thinking about the question ever since he'd gotten the idea to interview the Corvo heiress. From his own research as well as stories published in various newspapers, Autor knew a good deal about Rue Corvo, in terms of both her family as well as her career. _I __mustn__'__t __rush_, Autor reminded himself. _Start __with __small __talk, __ask__ about __her __career, __then __ask __her __about __the __opera __and __segue __into __inquiring__ about __her __father. __Act __natural!_

As Autor stole another glance, Rue also happened to look up, and catching his eyes she flashed him another smile. This one simple smile displaced the meticulous logic in Autor's mind, and he was suddenly struck by her alluring appearance.

She was beautiful, even more so tonight than she had been the night of the opera when he'd first met her in person. The wide cut of her neckline revealed flawless ivory skin that seemed to glow in the soft candlelight. Autor felt his cheeks flush and he ducked his head sharply back into the menu when a waiter approached their table.

While Rue ordered her meal, Autor took several long sips of his glass of ice water in an effort to calm himself. This was the most important interview of his career! His one chance to get up close and personal with the most powerful crime family in the city—yet all he had accomplished so far was to sit there ogling the Corvo heiress! Caught up in his self-deprecation, Autor almost didn't hear the waiter's question.

"And you, sir?"

"Ah—" Autor's head snapped up, quickly glanced back down at the menu, and picked the first item his eyes came cross. "I will have the caneton rôti, and another glass of water, please."

The waiter assented with a brisk nod, and after the server had retreated Rue said offhandedly, "I am remembering some of my reporter friends at the World telling me once that they'd hired a new reporter. I know many of the reporters from various agencies but you're a fresh face. I assume then you must be the man they were talking about?"

Autor, more composed now, nodded. "I started about a year and a half ago. Since I am relatively junior I'm usually in the office instead of being in the field. But due to my relatively extensive background and training in classical music, my editors would, from time to time, ask me to cover operas and concerts."

"What instrument do you play, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The piano. My father owned a music shop and he taught me to play the piano when I was a boy."

"Oh! That's wonderful, Mr. Brahms—would you mind awfully if I called you Autor? I'd much more prefer addressing people by their given name."

Autor blinked, and then smiled. "Ah, yes, certainly."

"Grand!" Rue's lips curved upward and she sat back contently into her chair like a purring cat. "I don't know if you already know this, but I used to dance ballet, and every practice would be accompanied by piano. It's amazing how a humble collection of smooth ivory keys and taut steel wires can produce such beautiful music," Rue said as the fingers of her hand nimbly tapped the table in rhythm, as though playing an imaginary keyboard. "It brings back some wonderful memories."

Autor was well aware that Rue used to be a ballet dancer, and one with no small amount of talent either. He wondered what Rue's dance would be like. Gracefully and technically superb surely, but also sensual, and passionate…

He cleared his throat, hurriedly shelving that thought. Speaking as much to distract himself as to continue the conversation, he said to Rue, "Y-yes, but that's now more of a hobby than a full-time pursuit of mine. You see, Miss Legnani—"

"Call me Rue, please."

Autor was at first thrown off by the request, but then he slowly answered, "Rue…um, as I was saying, my passion now is in journalism. I'm fascinated by the art of storytelling, and I want to be the best storyteller there is."

"The best reporter in the world, hmm?" Rue smiled, cocking a thin eyebrow at him. "Then you must be working very hard to achieve that goal, and I do like a man with ambition." She shifted forward slightly in her seat. "To tell you the truth, I was surprised when you called me about 'The Bartered Bride', since my agent hadn't made a public announcement that I would be attending. How did you know I had been there at the opera?"

Autor realized this was a trick question. She was probing him to see how much he already knew. But this was a question Autor had well anticipated. He inwardly smiled with pride and answered coolly, "Actually, we met once before, at the opera the other night in fact; I was rather absentminded and bumped into you by the ballroom entrance."

"Oh?" Rue was genuinely surprised, pausing to recollect. It took her several seconds to remember the incident, as she had been so intent on finding Mytho at the time.

"Yes, but you seemed to be in a hurry, so I wouldn't expect that you'd remember."

"I confess, I really don't recall it. I was, as you said, in a bit of a rush that night."

Thinking this to be a perfect opportunity to inquire about Don Corvo, Autor opened his mouth, only for the waiter to arrive with their food, forcing the reporter to hold his questions back. _Patience, __patience_, he told himself as the plates were set down before them. _Don__'__t __rush_.

Rue cast a momentary glance at him before picking up her fork. "The performance itself was very good, if I might say so. I can't comment too much on the singing, as I'm no singer myself, but in terms of stage production it was very well done," she said, spoiling Autor's opening by smoothly steering their conversation into a different direction.

During the rest of their meal they discussed the opera and other trivial and innocuous subjects. By the time their plates were cleared away and coffee and mints have been served, Autor decided it was time to get to the heart of the matter.

_How__ will__ she__ respond?_ Autor wondered as he absentmindedly stirred his coffee with a spoon._ Will__ she be __angry __for __prying,__ or __will __she __just __evade__ the __topic?_ His anxiety and anticipation made the young reporter's hand unsteady, causing the spoon he held to slip from his fingers and make a graceless "clink" against the edge of the porcelain cup.

He swallowed, feeling Rue's eyes on him. Picking up his cup and trying to look casual, he inquired, "I know your father, Mr. Corvo, is a great patron of the Met and he makes a point of attending all of their premier performances, but I don't recall seeing him that night at the theater."

Autor plucked up the courage to meet Rue's eyes. But the young actress's expression was unreadable, one slender finger of her hand lazily tracing the smooth rim of her untouched coffee cup.

Then, she said softly, "You mentioned you used to play the piano and are quite knowledgeable about music. But I wonder, how do you fancy jazz?"

Bewildered by her question, Autor stammered, "Ah, well, I can't say I'm an expert on _that_ particular form of music...if it could be called as such, though it has a definite sense of, uh…passion behind it."* He pursed his lips. "But I've only been to a handful of performances and can't really comment much on the topic, I'm afraid," Autor answered cautiously, having no idea how this was related to the subject.

Rue leaned forward, her elbows resting at the edge of the table, her voice coy, "In that case I _must_ show you what real jazz is all about. I know a swanky club that has an absolutely fabulous band playing tonight. They also have a superb bar, none of that coffin varnish and rotgut stuff there."

That certainly had _not_ been a response Autor had anticipated. "But I'm—!"

Rue swiftly quieted him when she reached out across the table and covered the back of his hand with hers, sending a wave of heat through Autor's cheeks. "I like you, Autor, and I really would like us to talk for a while longer. This is a fine place, but I can't speak freely here."

Leaning closer, she whispered, "You see, the truth is, there's something I've been wanting to get off my chest, but it's a rather…delicate matter, you understand? I'd prefer to talk about it in private."

Autor's heart rate had been steadily climbing during this whole exchange, and at this latest request he felt as though his heart would pound itself right out of his chest. With excitement he thought: _This__ is__ it!__ This __is__ your__ chance__ to__ get__ closer__ than__ ever __to__ the__ Corvos!_ But immediately, the cautious part of him fretted: _What __is __she __planning?__ Could __this __be __a __trap?_

A mental tug of war ensued, and he found himself stuttering as he tried to respond intelligently, "I-I'm not very good with drinks, that is to say, it's illegal and—"

"Oh, don't tell me you believe in all that sobriety nonsense?" Rue admonished him. Then, she gazed right into Autor's eyes, her lips curling upward temptingly. "Don't you worry, we won't get pinched at this place; I guarantee it."

With that one look, that one small smile, Autor's defenses were broken, and half an hour later he found himself looking at a non-descript building squeezed between a soda shop and a laundry, whereupon Rue had the taxi driver drop them both off across the street.

As Autor climbed out of the cab and approached the location, the bespectacled young man watched as a young couple stepped up to a door on the side of the building. They knocked, and after saying something to whomever was inside, he saw the man slip something that looked like a bill through a small sliding hatch.

As the taxi drove off and Rue walked up to Autor, the couple stepped into the opened door, which closed just as promptly as it had been opened. "This way," Rue said as she walked up to the doorway.

She rapped once on the wooden door, and from the small sliding hatch a pair of hooded eyes peered out at them suspiciously. When they caught on Rue however, the eyes grew wide and the door was hastily opened.

Rue gestured for Autor to follow her. As Autor walked through the threshold of the doorway he could make out chords of lively jazz music and a heavy waft of cigarette smoke in the air. The doorman led the two of them to another pair of doors, and when the doors opened a blast of raucous music pummeled Autor's ears.

The ballroom-sized space in front of him bore no resemblance to the bland façade of the outer building. A bar—abuzz with thirsty patrons—ran the length of the entire room and featured a well-stocked cabinet with a plethora of fine liquors. There was a live jazz band, belting out song after song as people took to the large dance floor in the center of the room, their heels clicking and tapping away with spirited abandon. Others sat on the varnished wood and plush leather furniture —often with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other—talking and laughing openly.

But what really caught Autor's attention was the big sign in the doorway where he and Rue stood. On it, neon lights—something that Autor had only before seen in photographs—spelled "THE NEST" in large bold letters, enveloping the entrance area in an eerie red glow.

A small statured man appeared from the crowd and greeted Rue. She said something back to the man, though Autor could not hear what was said above the clamor of music and other voices. The man motioned for them to follow him and Autor scanned the crowd as they made their way towards the back of the speakeasy. Judging from the furs, jewelry, and brands the patrons were sporting, this was a distinctly affluent group. Autor was even surprised to recognize some of the faces he saw here, including two city officials, a public trustee, and a police commissioner.

_No__ wonder __Rue __guaranteed __this __place __was __safe_, Autor thought dryly as the pair were led up a staircase to a private lounge overlooking the stage. Though the music still drummed relentlessly into his ears, the volume was lower than it had been downstairs and Autor could now hear what Rue said to the small man.

"A bottle of your best port wine," the actress said as she shrugged off her coat and hat into the arms of their waiter.

The black suited man nodded, and after collecting Autor's outer garments as well, he disappeared down the stairs, leaving the reporter alone with Rue. Autor walked to the edge of the lounge, and stood at the railing to look down at the stage. Below him the trumpets and trombones swung from side to side in time with the infectious beat, the bright brass of the instruments gleaming under the spotlights. Despite the freezing conditions outside, the room was sweltering, with sweat glistening on the brows of the dark-skinned musicians along with those of the audience as their frenzied dancing continued.

"So, what do you think?"

Autor turned to Rue, who gazed at him with expectant eyes. "It's very grand," he replied, sitting down at the table just as the waiter returned.

Autor watched as their server set down a platter of fruits and opened the wine bottle with a small 'pop', pouring the dark garnet liquid into a decanter. "I mean, this is actually my first time in such an…establishment, but it's very lively here. Do you come here often?"

Rue chuckled and picked up the decanter. She poured the port wine into both the glasses, and then picked up the glass closest to her. Swirling the contents around the glass, Rue closed her eyes and breathed in the rich scent of the wine before bringing it to her lips. "Once in a while, when I feel like I need to quench my thirst."

She arched an eyebrow at Autor, who sat still studying her, his hands folded on his lap. "You should try it; it's a 40-year-old vintage from Douro."

Flitting his eyes onto the glass before him, Autor hesitated. "But I…I'm supposed to be on official business for the bureau…"

Rue laughed. "Oh don't worry, I won't tell," she said, raising her glass to him, "this will be just between you and me."

Emboldened by her gesture, Autor plucked up his wine glass by its stem. Copying Rue, he brought the glass to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled. The vibrant aroma of the wine was sweet, and seductive.

_Just__ like __her__…_ a voice whispered in Autor's ears. He hastily swallowed the thought with the wine, and a rather exceedingly large gulp of it.

Rue watched the bespectacled young man with half-lidded eyes as he quickly put his glass back down, coughing and clearing his throat. "E-excuse me…I-I'm not very g-good at this…"

As he reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, a pair of soft pale hands held his outstretched hand in place, and he glanced up to find Rue sitting right next to him, her face inches from his. Autor's eyes widened and his face flushed, though it was impossible to tell how much was from the wine and how much was from Rue's extreme proximity to him.

"Can I trust you with a secret, Autor?" she whispered into his ear, her breath brushing against his flaming cheeks.

Autor could only sputter, "Wha-what do you mean?"

"I like you, Autor—I meant it when I said so earlier. It's so hard to find someone trustworthy and truthful nowadays." She edged closer to him, her knees touching his thigh. "You certainly are a swell fellow, cultured and gentlemanly as you are, so I feel like I can be honest with you."

"Well, I'm honored that you think so highly of me, Miss Legna—I mean, Rue." Unsure where this was headed, Autor focused on the actress's earnest face, trying to not let her touch distract him.

Picking up their wine glasses again, Rue passed Autor's cup to him. "As you probably know," Rue pensively swirled the port in her wine glass with her forefingers, "my father is quite the figure in this city. When he had stepped off Ellis Island he had scarcely a dollar in his pocket and only some old clothes in his trunk. He was a hardworking man, a smart man, and he made himself into what he is today with hard work and tireless effort. As his daughter I have seen all this, and yet…"

Here the raven haired young woman glanced down and took a deep breath. Had Autor been less entranced he would've recognized this as one of her signature dramatic pauses, often seen on screen in her movies.

"You've probably heard them before, all of those awful rumors…that Daddy is involved with criminals, that he consorts with murderers and thieves! He's one of the great citizens of the city. Can you believe this bushwa people are spouting?"

Surprised by her assertion, Autor wondered silently if maybe Rue really had no idea about her father's "enterprises". Taking a smaller sip of the wine this time, Autor cleared his throat before he said, "Well, that's just talk, isn't it? You shouldn't let idle gossip bother you."

"Oh, but it _does!_ To see Daddy's reputation sullied like this! And the police certainly are no help; they've been dogging us for so long now." She crossed her arms. "I'm sure you've heard about that bribery case from two years ago? It caused a huge, ridiculous racket, and all because of someone trumpeting up charges that the police made up." Her eyes narrowed. "I'll bet that what they're _really_ after is for the right chance to get a big, fat pay off from Daddy, those greedy mongrels."

Turning to Autor, Rue looked at his eyes inquiringly, "Though I don't suppose everyone agrees with that sentiment. What do _you_ think about our city's 'finest'?"

"I can't say I have much love for the police, either," Autor confided. He recalled Fakir's response to his project and scowled, his pride still bruised from the mental blow. "I've had an encounter with one recently, a real arrogant bastard he was."

"So I see I'm not the only one who thinks so, then!" Rue laughed and raised her glass to her companion.

After both of them had downed another swig of their wine, Rue asked, "If you don't mind me asking, what did this old mulligan* do to you?"

"Oh, he's not Irish. His parents were Portuguese, with some Moorish blood on his mother's side, I think. Fakir Romeiras is his name."

His eyes peering down into the wine glass in his hand, Autor didn't notice Rue's eyes widen, and then narrow in the dim light of their lounge. Rue wanted to ask him to tell her more, but she didn't need to, as Autor continued without prompting.

"He's rude and full of himself _and_ his own opinions. I spoke with him about a story…that is, a story I was working on, at the time," Autor said after a pause, his mind beginning to feel sluggish, but even in his muddled state he knew better than to expose his modus operandi. "I went to the police to ask for some information on the story I was working on, but was turned away, flat out dismissed because he thought my story was a waste of time." He sighed curtly. "I don't know how his neighbor puts up with him, or for that matter, why she'd go to an opera with him. Though she was a bit of a strange girl too, very odd name."

By now Rue was sitting flush against Autor, and she goaded him eagerly, "Yes?"

Autor blinked, his mind clouded like a thick, opaque fog. "Her name was…it was some sort of bird, I think…ah, Duck! That's her name. No mistaking it."

"…Duck?"

Autor looked over and nodded at Rue, who was staring at him aghast. "Yes, I know, funny name isn't it? I wonder where her family got the idea for that name. It's so odd," Autor chuckled, taking another drink from his glass and Rue laughed with him in disbelief, but for an entirely different reason.

The likelihood of two girls being named "Duck" in New York City was almost zero. But even then, Rue had to know with absolute certainty if this "Duck" who Autor was speaking of was the same person she met at the pointe shoe shop. So, she pressed him, "Tell me, what does she look like? Does she actually _look_ like a duck?"

By now the alcohol, the heat, and the cacophony from below were noticeably addling Autor's mind. Blearily, he replied, "She had r…red hair, and she has a loud voice, which is kind of duck-like…I suppose. But, I didn't get a very good look at her, so I can't say if she actually…waddles when she walks, or anything…"

Rue glanced away, her expression guarded. That account was confirmation enough. It was the same girl.

She turned back to Autor, hoping to pry more details out of him, but his head was already wilted drunkenly toward the back of the coach. Sure, she could try to get more information out of him, but trying to extract information out of a half-conscious, thoroughly intoxicated young man was almost as feasible as trying to interrogate a dead body.

Rue sighed resignedly, and after summoning their waiter, arranged to have the staff hail a taxi to take the groggy reporter home.

Once Autor had been carefully escorted down the steps, Rue stood at the railing, watching the crowd below her thoughtfully.

It could have been a fluke that Duck the shop girl she knew was neighbors with her family's archenemy, but the fact that Rue had also ran into Duck that day at the opera, along with this recent tale from Autor, made her begin to wonder if all this could have occurred merely by coincidence. Was there some kind of connection between them?

She remembered what her father had said: it was possible that the detective had come to the opera to look for Mytho. But if Duck had attended the opera _with _him…

Rue frowned. Duck had been unaccompanied during the whole time Rue was with her at the opera, which implied the girl and the detective weren't particularly close, so it was unlikely he had a purely personal reason for such an invitation. If not, then what other reason could there be? In any way she looked at it, their association seemed out of place.

The Corvo family had been searching tirelessly for the witness that the detective had gotten ahold of, whose identity somehow managed to continually elude them. Normally the police would periodically contact their witnesses to ask further questions about the crime, or inform them about a court date. All this would be recorded and in the past the family's informant within the police department had been able to uncover the identity of witnesses from paperwork or idle chatter amongst the officers. But in this instance there was nothing; no slip of the tongue, no paper trail.

It would appear as though there had been no further contact between the police and the mysterious witness since he or she was first identified, a fact that Rue knew was impossible for a case of this magnitude. The far more likely scenario was that the police had the witness under their custody somewhere, someplace. Rue was sure Fakir, as the lead detective on the case, must be the one guarding and making contact with the witness.

But that brought up another conundrum. Based on the preliminary inquires Orecchie had made in the last two days about the detective's habits, Fakir appeared to have a well established routine. Their source within the police force confirmed that Fakir never left the precinct office for long periods of time unless he was called out to work on a case, and most of the time he would be accompanied by at least one fellow officer. And as for his personal habits, according to the manager of the building he lived in, he always left and came back from work at about the same time each day and stayed at home on the weekends. This was unusual for a police officer, as they usually worked long, odd hours, but this detail in and of itself was not alarming.

Rue ran over the information their spy had sent her father earlier in the day, her mind completely blocking out the noises of the speakeasy. Based on what they know so far, it was unlikely the detective had a breadth of time where he could go off by himself to see the witness. The building Fakir lived in did not have telephone connection, so he must conduct his interview with the witness some other way. Communicating through the mail was an option, but the likelihood of a letter getting lost and the delay made it seem improbable.

Then what about the simplest, most direct way? Perhaps the detective kept the witness under constant supervision, close to him…_in__ plain __sight._

Rue chewed her lip, her mind racing. If that was so, could it be possible that, rather than Fakir looking for Mytho on his own, the detective had instead brought his witness along, not only to continue supervising the witness, but to ID Mytho for him as well? Then, wouldn't it mean that the witness had all along been…_Duck?_

Grimacing, Rue internally shook her head. No, she was letting her imagination run away with her. There were too many things that were unknown to her at this point. It could have been just as likely that the detective needed a companion for the opera in order to appear less conspicuous, and so simply dragged his convenient next door neighbor along. There was no need to assume from this one incident that Duck and the detective's case were related. Besides, how unbelievable a twist of fate would it be if the witness they had been searching for all this time simply waltzed into the opera and made small talk with the Corvo's daughter herself?

In any case, it still aggravated Rue that the stubborn thorn in her family's side might have for whatever reason saddled himself with this shop girl, whom Rue reluctantly acknowledged she had taken a liking to during their first meeting. So the actress had to admit to herself as well that the mere notion of Duck's involvement would continue to pester her anyway if she didn't make some sort of effort to put her wild speculations to rest.

Luckily for Rue, her father had already planted an agent near Fakir. It wouldn't be that much more work to keep an eye on his neighbor too.

With that in mind, Rue turned to the server waiting behind her.

"Contact Orecchie and tell him to come see me: I have another assignment for him."

* * *

A/N

*Jazz was not universally accepted when its popularity exploded in the 1920's. And Autor in this universe, being more of a traditionalist, both musically and morally, would probably have agreed with conservative opinions about this new "decadent" and "immoral" form of music.

* A "mulligan" is a 1920's slang term for an Irish cop, because there were—and still are—a lot of Irish-American police officers in New York City. The reason for this is that during and after the Great Famine in the mid 19th century in Ireland, millions of Irish immigrants came to America and many settled in New York City. There they took up jobs that were underpaid at the time, such as policing and fire fighting.

Brownie points to anyone who knows what Autor had for dinner.

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

A freezing gale heralded the arrival of a cold, snowy week ahead. Outside the Corvo residence, the bare branches of the trees in the bleak, uninviting city swayed with each chilly gust. Rue observed from a window overlooking the streets below as huddled figures scurried to their destinations so that they might sooner escape the bone-deep chill of a Manhattan winter.

One of the pedestrians discreetly peeled away from the rest, and as Rue watched him, the man separating from the crowd walked up the stairs leading to the front door of her father's abode before disappearing from her field of view. Rue leisurely affixed a cigarette to its ivory holder and lit the tip.

A few minutes later there was a slight shuffle of feet outside her door, and then a brisk knock.

"Come in."

The door clicked open, and through the reflection in her room's windowpane Rue watched her father's preferred spy step into the room. He was bundled up in a thick coat and scarf; a pair of small eyes peered out from under a wide brimmed hat.

"Good morning, Miss. I was told you have a task for me," he said a hushed, respectful voice.

"Yes. A little extra assignment on top of what you're doing for Daddy right now."

Still facing the window, Rue took a puff of her cigarette and said, "I want you to also keep an eye on that detective's neighbor. Her name is Duck Stannus and she works at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street in the Bronx." She paused as she lowered her cigarette slightly. "I want to know about her habits: when she leaves for work, when she returns home, where she goes in her spare time, who her friends are."

If Orecchie was surprised by this order he did not show it openly. "I take it then, the boss suspects she's involved in this business of ours?" he ventured cautiously.

"Not exactly. We don't know what information this girl might have—I met her once by chance," she added. Keeping her tone even, almost nonchalant, she went on, "Recently I found out she's neighbors with that pest of a detective. So I thought if I could find out more about her routine, I could plan ways of getting closer to her, and maybe learn some useful information about that Romeiras fella."

"Of course," Orecchie nodded. "I will report my findings to you, and to the Don as well—" he began but was quickly cut off by Rue.

"No, just bring your report of the girl to me," Rue said firmly, before loosening her tone again. "I mean, Daddy's very busy, isn't he? I don't want to distract him with a trivial sidetrack like this; I will inform him of any important information myself. If nothing urgent comes up, just report back to me in a few days, but inform me immediately if you find a lead. That'll be all for now."

The spy acquiesced and excused himself with a meek lowering of his head.

As Orecchie made his way to exit the mansion he came across Don Corvo, who had just arrived back home and was in the process of handing his coat and scarf off to his bodyguard.

"Orecchie, what are you doing here? Something to report?"

Don Corvo walked towards the spy, a dubious eyebrow furrowed. Knowing better than to keep information from the Don, Orecchie promptly answered, "Good morning, Boss. Miss Corvo called me over to convey some new instructions. I just finished speaking with her and was on my way out."

"Rue?" Don Corvo narrowed his eyes. "What did she want with you?"

"She asked me to keep an eye on the copper's neighbor," he answered without hesitation, "a girl named Duck Stannus, whom the missus says she'd met before by chance. It seems Miss Corvo wants to see if this girl might prove useful to us before reporting the findings to you."

The patriarch frowned. No one other than Don Corvo himself was allowed to revise orders he had expressly given, and Rue of all people should have known this beyond a doubt. That she had called over Orecchie on her own volition in the first place was already suspicious, but ordering a separate investigation without his prior knowledge? If there was one thing Don Corvo absolutely did not tolerate, it was subterfuge.

However, Rue was also unlikely to conduct such a bold scheme behind her father's back without a strong reason behind it. The girl could be onto something, regardless of why she was keeping it secret. It was more worth letting her take this ploy a little further right now, Don Corvo decided, than slapping her hand straight off and perhaps losing a valuable lead they might have otherwise discovered.

So to Orecchie, Don Corvo said, "Do as Rue had told you, but you will report anything you might uncover to _me_ first. Understood?"

"Yes, Boss. I'll certainly do that," Orecchie lowered his head respectfully and took his leave of the Corvo patriarch.

Once Orecchie had gone, Don Corvo returned to his study. When he opened the door, he found the family butler waiting in the room with a yellow envelope in hand. "A telegram arrived while you were away, sir."

Upon hearing this Don Corvo snatched up the envelope and took out the message inside, and as soon as his eyes skimmed across it, his thin lips curled into a smug grin. "Hmph! Indeed it was only a matter of time!" he exclaimed. "Time and again it's been proven true, 'Money alone sets all the world in motion!'*" So saying, he tossed the telegram and envelope into the fireplace.

As the hot embers lit the paper aflame, the telegram tipped to one side, revealing the words: "Offer accepted Will get name at first opportunity" before the document curled up and the words burned up into a wisp of black smoke.

* * *

The pale winter sun peered down upon the city as its residents began digging out from beneath the fresh snow. The nearly week-long front had dumped a considerable amount of it on the gray metropolis, leaving behind thick snow banks in its wake.

Despite the bleak cold, Duck was glad that at least the sun was out again and she didn't have to walk through the driving wind and the relentless chilly flurries of snow to get to work each day. With the clear weather, Duck was able to pause to admire the Christmas decorations in the shop front windows as she and Fakir walked abreast down the street towards the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. It was now just a week shy of Christmas, and seeing the display of holiday festivities around her brought a bright smile to the red haired girl's face.

She stopped in front of a miniature Christmas tree decorated with colorful candies in the window of a confectionery store. Wanting to tell Fakir about it, she turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but the jovial words melted away on her tongue when she saw the worn, distance expression on Fakir's face.

The dark shadows under his usually sharp eyes clashed greatly with Duck's good cheer, and one look at those dismal eyes puffed out her cheerfulness like a candle. Duck left the colorful shop window behind, her smile having sobered into a frown.

It seemed like such a long time ago, reflected the shop girl, even though it'd been little more than a week since the night of the opera. Fakir hadn't spoken to her much since then. Duck thought she'd be glad that Fakir had stopped breathing down her neck, but seeing the faraway look in his eyes the past few days, Duck found herself worrying about his own wellbeing instead.

He still accompanied her to and from work every day, appearing by her door in the morning, and in the evening waiting—with the evening post in hand—for her across the street from where she worked. Yet despite the consistency of their routine, she'd noticed these increasingly dark shadows under his eyes and how his lips were drawn thin in a perpetual frown, constantly brooding over something. Duck had a fair guess what that something was.

One night after he went back into his apartment, she had stood outside his door, her hand half raised, but stopped when she realized she had no idea what she would say to him. _Mytho was his friend, after all_, Duck thought as she retreated into her own apartment, sparing one last look at Fakir's closed door. _Even though Fakir made up his mind to arrest Mytho, it still must be really hard for him. _

Instead, she'd pressed her nose against the glass of her bedroom window to catch a sideway glance at Fakir's window. Every evening the light from his bedroom remained lit into the wee hours until Duck, pressed for sleep, had to retire for the night herself.

Things continued this way for days, and today she found Fakir waiting in the hallway as usual and they set out after Duck locked her door. But to Duck's surprise, instead of walking behind her as he'd always done, Fakir had settled himself squarely to her right, keeping even pace with her.

Duck could only assume from his behavior that he had something to say to her, but thus far he hadn't uttered a word or even looked at her since they had left their apartment building. Whatever it could be, Fakir seemingly could not bring himself to tell her, and now with only a few more blocks to go before they would arrive at the pointe shoe shop, the suspense was beginning to strain Duck's nerves.

_Somehow_, _Fakir manages to be frustrating even when he's not _saying_ anything!_

Distracted by her frustrated thoughts, Duck didn't pay attention to the uneven pavement half-hidden beneath the lingering snow, and she stumbled when her foot hit a raised edge in the concrete.

"Wha-!" Duck tumbled forward but a hand quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her upright before she could fall.

"Be careful, idiot."

Duck looked up at Fakir, his hand still on her arm. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but snapped his jaws shut before any words escaped. The corners of his lips tightened and he released Duck's arm before stepping back and continuing forward, though Duck could still feel the lingering pressure from his hand through her wool coat. She picked up her pace and was soon by his side again.

Deciding enough was enough, Duck began carefully, "Um, are you alright, Fakir? I know you've been staying up really late lately and you haven't been looking so good. Is it because of Myt—"

She stopped herself and hastily looked around her before continuing, "I mean, that case?"

Fakir glanced down at Duck, and seeing the genuine concern exuding from her azure eyes, his shoulders drooped wearily.

Taking a breath, he confided, "I've made up my mind on what I have to do, Duck. Mytho remains a threat to the city as long as he continues to work for the Corvos. I can't let him remain at large; he must be caught. But I realized that in itself is a problem."

"What do you mean?" Duck wondered aloud as they stepped slowly in tandem down the street, other pedestrians around them passing the pair by.

"When there's enough evidence to positively identify a suspect, a warrant for his arrest will be issued and distributed to all of the precincts in the city," Fakir explained, keeping his voice low. "Even if the warrant is issued only within the force, word will get out and it'll only be a matter of days or even hours before the mob catches word of it." His eyelids lowered. "Once the mob knows Mytho is wanted, he'll go into hiding right away for sure, and with the Corvo's connections he may very well leave the city, or even the country entirely. For all we know, he might have already done so after meeting me at the opera house."

He took a deep breath and rested his hands in his coat pockets. "If that happens, then it would only make apprehending him all the more difficult. It would be a nightmare for law enforcement, as the more a man is chased, the more he will try to resist arrest, and sometimes at any cost."

Though Duck didn't quite understand the legal process Fakir described, she felt she understood what he was concerned about. "In other words… you're worried that if he ends up on the run, then it could get dangerous?"

"For him, and for others as well," Fakir acknowledged grimly.

A body riddled with bullets, crumpled in a pool of blood. A shoot out would almost certainly result in loss of life, and more than likely on both sides. Mytho, as he was now, was indisputably a dangerous man, and judging by the murder Duck herself had witnessed, he had no qualms using heavy firepower to achieve his ends.

Fakir had already lost his parents to a deadly hail of gunfire; he didn't want to lose his childhood friend to that fate as well, no matter how much Mytho might've gone astray. "The safest way to avoid such a scenario is to track him down on my own first, without notifying the rest of the police force, so that the chance of him taking flight would be minimal."

His brows creased more deeply with apprehension. "But to find him on my own in a city this vast…that would be an almost impossible feat."

They stopped at a crosswalk alongside other pedestrians standing, waiting for the traffic to clear. Fakir's eyes surveyed the stream of vehicles, flitting back and forth between them aimlessly, his mind weighted down by the dilemma.

"Charon has been away for the past few days at a meeting, and even though I should've wired him immediately about Principe's identity, I didn't," he said to the air, eyes still going to and fro. "I'd been debating with myself what my next step should be, but now I've run out of time. Charon will be back in the office today and he'll invariably ask about my progress on the Corvo case."

After a pause, Fakir admitted, "Still, I… find I am unable to bring myself to tell him about Mytho." Duck could hear the shame and worry permeating his voice.

This really was a pickle, Duck grimaced to herself. She could understand now why the problem had preoccupied him all week. If Fakir publicized Principe's identity he risked Mytho taking flight, but if he didn't then he would have to attempt to track down Mytho on his own, and with no leads that was like finding a needle in a haystack.

A decision had to be made today, and she had a feeling this would only be the first of many tough choices Fakir would have to face if he continued to pursue Mytho. But standing at an impasse like this was not a solution. If only they had a clue that could lead them to Mytho…

_There is that… _Duck blinked, recalled the fleeting look of surprise on Mytho's face when he'd seen her at the gala. _I don't know; it might not be of any use_.

Duck glanced back at Fakir. _But, just maybe.._.

Around them the people started to move without Fakir even noticing. But suddenly, Duck grabbed his hand and the detective found himself being yanked forward as they rushed across the street ahead of the crowd.

Clutching onto his hat to keep it from flying off his head, Fakir yelled, "What are you doing?"

Duck did not answer him, only letting go of him after they reached the other curb. Turning pointedly to him, she said, "You can't keep sitting on this forever, Fakir. I know it'll be hard to find him in a city this big, but you managed to find _me_ that other time, didn't you? All you need is some kind of clue, and I, well…"

Duck trailed off, biting her lips and glancing sidelong. This had never been something she was happy talking about, but at this point her own comfort didn't matter. She couldn't bear to see Fakir languish like this. Duck wanted to help him move this case forward so that, as Rachel had pleaded her to help with, Fakir might be able to move on from the past.

It was not pity, but the desire to help a friend, she realized. Though she thought it strange that she now considered Fakir as such, she couldn't deny how she truly felt.

_He'll probably be mad at me for not telling him this earlier_, she thought, steeling herself. Duck took a deep breath and met Fakir's eyes. "There's something… I haven't told you yet."

Fakir stiffened, and he focused his full attention on Duck as she told him quietly, "When I ran into Mytho at the party, he said something to me: he said my mother's name."

"Your mother's name?" Fakir asked, confused.

"He said, 'Elsa'. I'm sure of it," Duck explained. "I do look quite a bit like Ma, everyone says so. And you had mentioned that Mytho came here to attend a dance school, so maybe Ma was his teacher at one point, and that he might've studied at the studio where Ma used to work."

Fakir stared at her, incredulous. _First she told me she'd met Rue, and now she tells me Mytho knew her mother._ _Christ, next thing you know she'll be saying her grandfather was old friends with Domenico Corvo!_

He massaged the bridge of his nose while Duck watched him nervously. "Umm… are you mad at me now?" she whispered, her chin tucked timidly close to her chest.

Fakir gave her a long tired look, before sighing, "No, I'm not."

Duck blinked, her eyes widening. "Really?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Stop worrying about things like that."

This new information Duck had revealed was completely unexpected, but it now changed things considerably. The dark haired officer furrowed his brows, pondering it over. One of the problems he had with finding Mytho on his own was the fact that he had no idea what Mytho's habits were here in the city, and thus did not know where to start looking for him.

However, this dance studio possibly could provide some useful leads for him to work with. It may still be grasping at straws, but it was definitely better than nothing.

While Fakir considered this, Duck stood by, watching him curiously. Then the detective turned to her and asked, "Do you know if this dance studio is still in business?"

"Yeah, or at least it was the last time I passed by, which was about two months ago. It's called Crown Dance Studio."

Duck gave Fakir the address for the studio, which he jotted down in his pocket notebook. While the detective tucked his pen away, Duck wondered aloud hopefully, "You think this will be helpful in finding Mytho?"

Fakir shrugged. "I don't know what happened to Mytho after he came to New York. I can't begin to guess where he might be now; I could, however, try to piece together what had happened to him after he came to the city and how he might've became involved with the Corvo family. That might give me some clues as to his current whereabouts and associations." He readjusted his hat with his right hand. "It's a long shot, but it's all I've got, so until I get Mytho's side of the story from himself in person I'll have to see what I can find out myself."

Duck let out a relieved sigh. "That's good. I really hope it will work out," she smiled. Fakir watched Duck's earnest eyes and her infectious hope brought an unbidden smile to his lips.

Lowering his head down toward his watch to conceal the unwitting smile, he remarked, "Yes, well…enough dilly-dallying. You do realize you're late for work again? It's already five past the hour."

That comment succeeded in knocking the smile clean off Duck's face as she gasped in horror.

"Oh, drat! Not _again_!" Duck peered down at the watch on Fakir's outstretched wrist before letting out a whine and consequently dashing down the street towards the familiar pointe shoe store without another word.

With no one around to catch him in the act, Fakir allowed his smile to linger as he watched her disappear into the store, before turning around to continue onward to the police station, unaware that another pair of eyes in the crowd followed him closely.

* * *

The 53rd police precinct was located in a three-story building that was originally an old apartment complex. As such the hallway inside was narrow and cramped, giving the beehive-like interior a perpetual stuffy atmosphere.

Taking off his hat and coat, Fakir strolled past officers escorting arrestees to and from the holding cells, the floor filled with voices of the law, the lawless, and the hopelessly drunk. Most of the people incarcerated had been picked up the previous night for drinking, bootlegging, or both, along with a smattering of thieves, streetwalkers, and thugs rounding out the arrestee population.

Leaving the hectic first floor behind, Fakir climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor where two plaques, one titled "Robbery", and the other above it "Homicide", hung on the wall near the entrance.

Walking towards his own desk, the question of what to tell Charon still weighed heavily on Fakir's mind. He absentmindedly hung his hat and coat on the nearby rack and set about organizing and updating the paperwork on his desk.

He managed to distract himself for a time, working on these unrelated cases, but the work was all too soon finished.

Fakir looked up at the clock. It was now almost nine, and the captain was probably in his office by now. On any normal day he would go see Charon at around this time, but today Fakir hung back at his station, staring blankly at the typed paper lying on the desk in front of him.

Charon had been his supervisor since he had entered the force, and Fakir respected the man immensely, not only for his mentorship, but also for his insight, humility, and most importantly, trust. As the youngest detective to have ever worked this precinct, there was a lot of skepticism about his abilities when he first joined the force. At the time, most people saw him as the foolish law student who, instead of opting for a cushy life as a lawyer after graduation, had chosen the drab and dirty existence of police work.

However, Charon had been open to him from the start and treated his earnest energy with a patient and understanding hand. Fakir had sought Charon's advice on cases many times and had gotten valuable feedback and assistance in return. He had never before withheld information from the captain, nor had he ever envisioned he would have felt it necessary.

_It's for the good of the case, _he asserted to himself as he finally rose from his desk. _As soon as I get on a good lead, I will tell the captain straight away_. With files in hand, he made his way to meet the captain.

It appeared to be a particularly busy day in the precinct, and Fakir passed several of his colleagues whisking to and fro across the hallway that separated his desk from Charon's office. Suddenly, a figure came hurtling around the corner next to Charon's office and nearly collided with the dark haired detective.

"Watch out, coming through!"

"Hey, watch where _you're_ going!" Fakir stepped hurriedly to the side, scarcely avoiding being plowed over.

A man with a flat nose and disproportionally large, almost flap-like ears turned around, his wide eyes peering over the top of a towering stack of brown document bags and other miscellaneous file folders. Fakir recognized the man as Batson from the Robbery division, who frankly looked like a thief himself right now as he glanced from side to side nervously.

"What are you doing with all that?" Fakir was compelled to ask, his lips curling downward with bewilderment.

"Oh, it's you, Fakir," Batson whispered quickly, "Sorry, can't talk right now. But if anyone asks, don't tell them I have these files, okay?"

He turned and started to jog down the hall, "Don't worry, I'll put them all back later!"

Fakir arched an eyebrow as Batson disappeared from view. Closing his eyes for a moment and sighing, Fakir turned around and barely took another step forward when a small, lithe figure stumbled in front of him.

"Ah! I'm sorry Fakir, I-I was just thinking about something and I didn't see you," the mint-haired young woman touched the wire-rimmed glasses back onto her nose. Fakir immediately recognized her as Malen, their resident police secretary who, due to her additional aptitude for the visual arts, also doubled as a composite artist when the need arose.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Fakir shrugged as Malen kept her gaze low to the ground. She'd always been a quiet, diffident person who worked hard at her job, and Fakir didn't want to give the shy secretary a hard time. After all, she wasn't the only person there that day whose mind was on other matters.

Malen started to walk away when Fakir, remembering the direction she had come from, called out to her, "Malen, did you happen to see Charon in his office when you walked by?"

"N-no, I didn't. I just dropped off his coffee and he wasn't there when I went in…" the young secretary explained, when her gaze shifted to something behind Fakir.

Turning around, Fakir saw Charon coming into view down the hall. The captain smiled when he saw them. "Ah, Fakir, Malen! Good morning."

Fakir greeted the captain, and when Charon approached the detective he said to Malen, "By the way, Malen, have you seen my coffee mug? I came in this morning but it wasn't in my office. I must be getting old because I can't seem to find it anywhere."

"I made some coffee earlier, and left some in your office, sir," Malen replied bashfully.

"I see. Thank you, dear," Charon smiled kindly at the young woman who gave a brief nod before hurriedly retreating to her desk.

"I say there, Captain! Fakir!"

Just when Fakir thought he would finally have his interview with the captain, they were once again interrupted, and this time by a high-pitched bark as a very short man came huffing breathlessly towards them

"Have either of you seen the stack of documents that was on my desk last night? I come in first thing this morning and it's gone! Vanished!"

Charon stroked his chin. "Are you sure you hadn't put it away and forgotten about it, Johnny? Because that's what happened last time."

"I'm certain, Captain; I've looked everywhere. Someone_ must've_ taken them!" he yipped frantically.

"You might want to check Batson's desk," Fakir said flatly, thumbing in the direction where the large eared man had taken off to earlier.

"Damn it! I should've known it was him!" Johnny howled as he hurried past Fakir and Charon. "Just because we both need those files does _not_ mean he gets to hog them all to himself!"

As the small man rushed off, Charon chuckled, "Well, it seems everyone's in good spirits today, doesn't it?"

Fakir's lips twitched, and while massaging his temples he scoffed, "Yeah, for better or for worse…"

Still smiling, Charon shook his head good-naturedly at the antics of his officers as the two of them made their way into the captain's office. Fakir shut the door cautiously behind him while Charon sat down in his office chair and sipped the still steaming coffee Malen had left behind. "I can't really blame Batson and Johnny for being as frantic as they've been; the holidays are, after all, a busy time for the Robbery unit."

The captain sighed as he pulled back his chair. "How about you, Fakir? Any developments on the Corvo case?"

Fakir started. Although he'd been anticipating the question all along, he still found himself unprepared. He began to stammer, "Ah, n-no, I…"

Charon looked up at Fakir with a quizzical furrow to his brow just as Fakir vehemently shook his head. "No, there's been nothing new," he said quietly before taking a seat across from the captain, not meeting the older man's eyes.

The captain blinked. "Ah… that's not a surprise, sadly. What about the Robinson case, then? Has the coroner's office sent us a report about the cause of death yet?" As Fakir brought out the file folder he had taken along, their conversation thus shifted onto other cases.

_I'm sorry, Charon, but I have to do this on my own for now_, Fakir apologized silently as the captain told him about his meeting with the members of Congress in D.C. to discuss the current bootlegging problem. _The sooner I can find a lead, the sooner I can catch up to Mytho. I just hope I won't be too late…_

* * *

"That is what I have found so far, Boss."

Orecchie lowered his head in deference, the grandfather clock down the hall solemnly striking nine in the evening.

Don Corvo remained silent, clasping his hands together thoughtfully while his underling sat in a chair opposite him. The curtains in the dark study were drawn tight, with only the lamp on the Don's desk providing a feeble source of light.

"Very interesting," the Don said at last. "The involvement of this neighbor is proving to be of far more consequence than I could have guessed. And to think that darling little Rue had been the one who chanced upon information like this…"

He twisted the ruby-eyed raven ring he wore back and forth around his finger, his eyes gleaming from beneath lowered eyelids. "It's been a week and there's still no word from our little 'collaborator' within the police. We have been stalled long enough already," the Don growled, rasping his knuckles impatiently on the hardwood of his desk.

_With this new development, all we need is that name for a final confirmation_…

A gentle rap came from the door and Orecchie jumped up with alarm. Don Corvo reached out a hand, motioning for him to sit back down before calling out, "What is it?"

"A telegram just arrived for you, sir," replied the deep voice of the butler.

The old man's eyes flashed open wide and he sat up keenly from his chair. "Come in, let me see it!" he demanded as the butler discreetly entered the room and promptly handed him the sealed envelope before taking his leave.

There was no sender's name and Don Corvo tore the yellow envelope open with a letter opener, snatching up the telegram inside. His dark eyes scrolled over the text first once, then twice. Then, he let out a croaking laugh.

"Speak of the devil," the old man murmured with a smirk.

Don Corvo put the telegram back in its envelope and tucked it inside his coat pocket. Still standing, he turned to his seated henchman and ordered, "You may go, Orecchie, and let Rue know about what you have found. Continue to monitor the situation as you have been."

"Yes Boss," Orecchie nodded submissively.

"And one more thing," Don Corvo said, folding his hands together again. "Tell Mytho and the Nitti brothers to see me as soon as possible." A menacing grin spread across his face. "Duck hunting season has begun."

* * *

A/N

* "Money alone sets all the world in motion," a quote by the Roman writer Publilius Syrus.

In the old days, telegrams were charged by the number of words in a message. Most punctuation marks did not exist, save for "stop" and "query" (which stood for "period" and "question mark", respectively), and even these cost money. Therefore most people, when sending telegrams, try to word their message as succinctly as possible, without making the wording confusing due to the lack of punctuations.

Batson, as credited in the English dub, is based on Hammerhead Batson, the bat librarian from the series. Johnny is based on Chihuajuan the chihuahua, also from the English dub credits, with John being the Anglicized version of Juan.

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"I _told_ you, I can't come today, either! What? No, I don't care what the producer said. You just say to him what I've said to you, and if he's not happy with it, then tell him he _and_ his picture can go to hell!"

Rue slammed the telephone mouthpiece noisily back onto its holder, before reclining back into her cushioned sofa as she massaged her temples.

Continuing to abide by her father's orders, she hadn't left the house in over a week save for meeting Autor, but the confinement was wreaking havoc on her work. Movies she'd already signed contracts for had to be put on hold, and with no idea when her period of captivity would end, many of the producers were getting impatient and threatening to take her off the cast.

It certainly did not help that she had seen very little of Mytho during this time. Often he would lock himself in a room with the Don or some number of other family associates clandestinely appearing and disappearing from the house, or sometimes Mytho might leave the house at night, not returning until early the next morning. Rue supposed that he was working on something important for her father, but she dared not inquire while so close to her father's daunting presence.

Mytho was absent again tonight, having taken off shortly after yet another silent dinner. Now sitting in her empty boudoir, Rue was left to brood silently over her frustrations. Though an aspirin would've done more for her headache, the actress instead lit a cigarette and puffed on it crossly. A part of her admittedly resented the fact that although Father had ordered them both to lie low, Mytho was the one allowed more freedom of movement. Yet because it was Mytho, and not just any other man, the favoritism ultimately bore little weight on her mind.

Indeed, what concerned her most at this point was how she could be of most use to her father, and how she could prove herself a daughter worthy of the Corvo family name. Telling a couple of whiny producers to get off her case was the least she could do.

If only she could do more, though, than sit idly in her room waiting for the storm to pass, while the rest of her family worked on their problems without her…

She picked up a crinkled newspaper lying on the table, the wear and tear on it already beginning to show, and reread the article she had already perused multiple times by now. It was the review of _The Bartered Bride_ Autor had penned after their interview. As Rue had anticipated, Autor hadn't mentioned what she had said to him while inside the club. She wondered dryly whether or not part of it was due to him not having remembered much of what had happened anyway, having become drunk after but a single glass of wine.

The interview had not been a complete waste of time though, at least from her end. From him, Rue had discovered that the shop girl she had met in the toe shoe shop was next-door neighbors with none other than her family's arch nemesis.

The thought of Duck drew a shadow over Rue's eyes. No matter how hard she tried to forget the idea, it kept resurfacing in her mind. Yet regardless of whether she could convince herself of it or not, Rue was simply unable to accept the notion that this unassuming girl might have been the dangerous witness they were after all along.

So with each passing day and no word from Orecchie, Rue had only grown more and more apprehensive. Had he found something? Or nothing? Had her father found out she had given Orecchie orders without his permission or not? Why hadn't Orecchie reported back to her yet?

A sudden knock on the door startled Rue, and the newspaper in her hand slipped from her fingers, drifting onto the floor. Fumbling to smash out her cigarette, she took a breath in attempt to clear her head, and called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, Miss," replied Orecchie.

Rue jumped up from her seat, and in three brisk strides opened the door and ushered the spy in.

"Tell me, what have you found?" she urged as she sat back down on the settee, her gaze fixed upon him.

Orecchie, his head hanging low, answered, "As you had instructed me, Miss Corvo, I've been watching this Stannus girl. It seems there's something very peculiar about her."

Rue's already racing heart began to beat even faster as she demanded impatiently, "Don't beat around the bush; get to the point!"

Orecchie cleared his throat and began his report. "I had first taken note of her when I initially had begun following the detective about, even before you gave me this assignment. I noticed this red haired girl always was with him on his way to and from the precinct. This was odd, but they were neighbors, so it was quite possible they shared similar routines and therefore I didn't think much of it at first.

"But after you called my attention to this girl, I noticed that each day, the detective would stop and buy the evening paper from a boy across the street from the ballet shoe shop where she worked. He'd pause to read the paper until she left the shop, and then they'd walk back to their apartment together. They always kept their distance from each other, hardly ever speaking to one another, except on one occasion. It struck me as very odd."

Orecchie folded his hands. "So one day I asked the newspaper boy about that customer of his. The paper boy told me the man first came to him to buy newspapers 'bout a month ago, specifically three days before Thanksgiving."

Rue's fingers touched her mouth and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _The day after Alphonse was whacked._

Noting Rue's unease, Orecchie paused before resuming his narrative, "Miss, this boy remembers it clearly because the first time that particular customer bought a paper from him, the man and the red haired girl from across the street had a fight afterward. He couldn't hear much of the argument, except the gal was as mad as a hellcat about whatever it was. Ever since then, they'd been carrying on with the routine I described to you earlier."

A gloved hand rose thoughtfully to his chin. "The paper boy seemed to believe the man was an enamored suitor, but I thought otherwise. As I followed this girl, I saw that the grocer she visits is only a block away from where Alphonse croaked. So I had a chat with some of their neighbors, and it seems the detective only moved in recently."

"How recent?" Rue asked, with the intent to sound probing, but her voice coming out as a whisper. To keep her hands from shaking, she laced her fingers together in her lap.

"Two days before Thanksgiving," Orecchie replied.

A couple of sharp raps on the door made Rue gasp, scattering her thoughts as she snapped her head around. Only halfway standing up, she cleared her throat and managed haltingly, "Wh-who is it?"

"It's me," replied her father's unmistakable deep, hoarse voice.

At this Rue shot up fully out of her chair. On the way to the door, she stopped and glanced back at Orecchie, wondering how she would explain to the Don why she was talking with the Corvo's trusted spy.

"Rue, _open the door_," Don Corvo snapped in a far more commanding tone.

Left with no other choice, Rue stepped forward and partially cracked the door open. She looked through the doorway to see the sharp eyes of her father glaring back at her.

"Daddy, i-it's so late…I was going to go to bed soon," she explained, hoping her father would believe her excuse and let her be.

Don Corvo silently cast a sidelong glance at her before striding through the door and entering Rue's room, right past where Rue stood waiting. Orecchie quickly stood up from his chair and bowed his head toward his master.

"Have you done what I told you earlier?" the Don asked his henchman. Rue's eyes darted with confusion from her father to the shorter man across from her.

Orecchie nodded. "Yes, Boss. Principe answered that they'll return the moment they're finished. They ought to be back here within half an hour."

Don Corvo nodded his approval, and waved his hand. "Good. You can go now."

With a diffident bow, Orecchie promptly took his leave of the Corvos, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the path open between Rue and the Don.

From near the door, Rue cautiously approached her father standing in the center of her room, wondering what the old man was going to do now that he'd caught her speaking with the family's spy, not to mention what her father suddenly needed Mytho for.

Her first concerns were addressed quickly enough when Don Corvo slowly made his way to the couch and sat down. He gazed up at his daughter from beneath half-lidded, shadowed eyes. "Tell me, Rue: why was Orecchie in your room?"

Rue swallowed, and she found her palms sweating at her father's candid question. Not sure how much he already knew of her actions, she decided to play coy. "I-I was worried about the investigation, Daddy," she pushed a smile to her lips and demurely sat down next to her father on the couch. "So I called Orecchie here to ask how the surveillance on the detective was coming along."

"Is that so?" Don Corvo asked darkly, and the young woman stiffened at the coldness in her father's voice. "Rue, I knew about this little ruse from the very beginning: how you wanted Orecchie to watch the detective's neighbor, how you thought you could use your connection to the girl to find out more about the copper himself." His eyes narrowed to slits. "Did you think you were somehow being clever, snooping around in my business like you were?"

The black-clad patriarch stood up and circled the settee ominously, his angry voice booming at her, "_You_ of all people, Rue, should have known that only the Don has the authority to give orders on behalf of the Corvo family. _Despite_ that," he snapped, "you gave Orecchie orders completely on your own, and moreover behind my back, without as much as saying a word to me about it afterward."

Rue sat with her hands clutched tightly in her lap, not daring to interrupt her father's words. Don Corvo planted himself behind Rue, and though he was but a stooping old man, his towering presence gave off a threatening air that made even his own daughter tremble beneath him.

"Do you remember the reason I gave you the name of 'Rue'?" Don Corvo looked down at the cowering young woman.

Her head bowed, Rue whispered, "Yes, Daddy."

"But it seems you've forgotten, so I will remind you now," the Don said, pacing back and forth behind Rue again, the sound of his cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. "Even though you are my own flesh and blood, you are not my heir. Only a _son_ could rightfully take over my position as the Don of this family, _this thing_ of ours."* He took a breath and sighed deeply. "I had hoped when you were born that you would be a boy, but alas, you were born a girl. This fact is my greatest regret, my one dearest _'rue'_."

He paused, a rare moment where he seemed to need effort to hold his emotions back. Then he took another breath and continued.

"Even then, my daughter, I still love you. After all," Don Corvo explained, "I raised you after your mother passed away, and provided you with the best education money could buy, so you would never bring shame to the family, and would one day find a man suitable to become my heir."

"However!" His voice rose as he began to scold her sharply, stopping once more in his tracks. "By hiding your intentions from me, you jeopardize the family's interests! And by endangering the family, you endanger _me_, and all that I've ever worked for!"

The Don's low voice dropped into a chilling, menacing growl. "Having been so ungrateful, do you think you still deserve my love?"

Desperately Rue shook her head. Twisting around in her seat and grabbing her father's hand, gazing up at him she pleaded, "Oh Daddy, please! Please, don't say that! You're the only family I have!" Her voice cracked as she nearly burst into tears, taking all of her self-restraint to keep from doing so. "I'm...I'm so sorry I didn't ask your permission, Daddy! I was only trying to help you—that's all I ever wanted!"

As Rue choked back a sob, Don Corvo lifted her chin up with his hand toward his face, looking her straight in the eyes. Not often was Rue reminded that her distinctive wine red eyes were inherited from her father's dark crimson ones. "Though you have overstepped your boundaries, you have redeemed yourself somewhat by picking up on the trail of this Duck Stannus girl."

Rue's eyes grew wide at these words, and a sickening feeling developed in the pit of her stomach. Don Corvo chuckled, and he drew his hand back behind himself, stepping away from the stunned raven-haired young woman before speaking again.

"I had Orecchie report his findings to me earlier this evening, and at that point I was already convinced that this girl was the witness we were looking for. All we needed was verification from our informant. And lo and behold, just as I was beginning to vex over the matter, a message arrived," the patriarch said as he pulled out the telegram from his suit pocket and handed it to Rue, who grasped the yellow envelope with a shaking hand. "Read it, Rue."

As she slowly took out the telegram, Don Corvo said, "Your actions, though irresponsible, have saved us considerable time in plotting our moves against this witness. For that, you have pleased me."

But all Rue could do was stare down in disbelief at the words "Duck Stannus" printed before her on the pink stationery.

_So I was right, then_, a voice murmured in Rue's mind, her pale face contorted in an expression of amazement and horror.

Rue knew what this meant. If they didn't do something about the witness, Mytho would be identified and all their lives would be ruined. And, if Duck was the witness, she had to be eliminated. End of story.

She had privately valued their brief friendship, and sincerely had hoped that the surveillance on Duck would yield another opportunity for her to meet the bubbly girl. But none of that was meant to be.

Any bond that might have existed between her and Duck had to be severed, for as much as she liked the clumsy redhead, she could not save the life of a shop girl in place of the life of the one man she'd given her heart to, the man who would also be her father's heir.

She had no other choice but to accept the situation as it was: she would never see Duck again. Rue could almost hear the cackling voice of Fate in her ears.

A star born in darkness could only bring darkness to those around her.

* * *

Mytho dismissed his two bodyguards and sat alone in the empty study. The night had been excessively long and the discussion with Don Corvo had taken even longer. But at long last, the plan had been fully hatched, and at daybreak it would be set into motion.

Grasping the thick embroidered curtains, Mytho flung them aside and a waning winter moon greeted him, a bright silver crescent in the distance hanging above the rooftops. His eyes still on the moon, his hand reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a small crimson velvet jewelry box.

Snapping the lid open, Mytho looked down with half-lidded eyes at the object within: a small, golden-yellow pendant. The size of a quarter, it was made of a light amber-hued glass hemisphere, with the profile of a woman in art nouveau style on one side of it, like the light of a crescent moon.

He gently stroked the woman's outline with his fingertips, amber eyes gazing longingly at the pendant that matched their hue. Mytho closed his eyes, covering the pendant with his fingers, before opening his eyes again, gently closing the case and tucking it back into his pocket.

After readjusting his suit jacket, Mytho looked back up at the moon with a resolute expression on his face, before drawing the curtains closed against the pale crescent.

* * *

Fakir stepped out of his taxi, and peered up at the sign for the Crown Dance Studio. He headed through the front door, and immediately upon entering he could hear the thuds of many pairs of feet in unison on the hardwood floor, voices calling out the beats to recorded practice music, drawing out inadvertent feelings of nostalgia from him.

Fakir stopped a young woman passing by with burgundy hair done up in a prim bun, who he guessed was an instructor. After showing her his badge, he asked to see the studio's director. The young woman nodded and briskly strode off to return a few minutes later with a pair of adults also similarly dressed as dance teachers.

One of them was a tall, broad-shouldered man, while the other was a slim woman with cropped black hair, the former introducing himself as Paulo, while the latter introduced herself as Paulo's wife, Paulamoni.

"Could we help you with something, Officer?" Paulamoni asked courteously, though from the frown on her face she was clearly concerned by this unexpected visit.

"I'm just here to ask a few questions about a possible former student of yours," Fakir reassured them, though that did not ease the discomfited expressions from the couple's faces. "Do either of you know, or remember, a boy named Mytho who came to study ballet here about eight years ago?"

"Mytho?" The couple asked in unison before exchanging surprised looks at one another.

Turning back to Fakir, Paulamoni replied, "Why, yes, we do. In fact, he was one of our best students."

Fakir's heart leapt at the news, and as he promptly pulled out his pocket notebook he urged them, "Can you tell me more about him? How long was he here for, what did he do while he was here, and how did he get along with the people here? Anything along those lines."

Paulo folded his arms and recounted, "He started here in the spring of 1916, I think. I'm the instructor in charge of the male students here at this school, and I remember being surprised that for a boy who had no previous formal training, he showed amazing aptitude and talent for his age. A natural dancer, he was," the instructor said as a smile grew on his face. "He got along well with everyone, as far as I know. In fact, I remember several of the girls in the beginner's class had quite the crush on him," Paulo remarked with a fond chuckle.

Paulamoni evidently recalled this as well, as she smiled in turn and added, "Ah, yes, and he was so polite and intelligent too. He was a very charming boy, but he was quite well-read too—which also really surprised me, given that he'd grown up in an orphanage."

She sighed, and her brows furrowed, her smile growing bittersweet. "I wish we had more to tell you than that, Officer, but he left around six years ago and we haven't heard from him since. He had run out of money to pay for his tuition and board, you see," Paulamoni explained. "We had been more than happy to offer to let him stay on for free, but he wouldn't have any of that."

She bit her lips. "I understood that he wanted to be a gentleman and not accept other people's pity, but it was truly sad for us to lose such a promising young danseur like him."

"He's…all right, isn't he?" Paulo asked Fakir, his voice filled with concern.

"I…I don't know, but…it's imperative that I learn as much as I can about him while he was here," Fakir said uneasily. Wanting to disguise his own discomfort, he continued right onward with his next question, "What about Elsa? She was an instructor here, right? What was his relationship to her?"

At this Paulamoni's eyes lit up, and she gave a surprised look at the detective. "Elsa? Well…she had been his instructor at the time. Or more specifically, she had been the instructor for the advanced girls' classes as well as the paired classes, of which he was a part."

"How long had they known each other?" Fakir asked, his pencil tip dancing rapidly and intently across the pages of his notebook.

Paulamoni touched her chin thoughtfully. "If I remember correctly, Mytho started paired classes with Elsa in his last year with us here, but he'd met Elsa earlier when he first arrived and she had helped him improve his form. So I would say about two years."

"Were they particularly close?"

"Yes, perhaps a bit more so than the other people at the school. I think Elsa, more than anyone else here, really tried to bring out his potential. I would often see them practicing after class, even after other students had already left for the day. Always very polite and professional with each other," Paulamoni added, as if to avoid giving Fakir the wrong impression.

The detective asked the couple a few more questions, but did not uncover any leads as to who might know where Mytho was now, or where he had gone off to after leaving the school.

Tucking the little notebook back into his pocket, one last question crossed Fakir's mind, and turning to Paulamoni he asked, "By any chance, have either of you ever heard of Rue Corvo?"

"Rue Corvo?" Paulamoni frowned, pursing her lips as she tried to remember, while her husband recalled the name more readily.

"Yes, I have," Paulo nodded. "She, or rather her father, rented one of our studios for her to use privately in the afternoons a number of years ago. The man who paid for her fees said she wanted a quiet place to dance while she stayed in the city." He folded his hands pensively. "I watched her dance once while she was here. She was a great dancer; I remember thinking, t'was a pity she wasn't actually a student here with us."

Fakir narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you remember when and for how long she rented the studio?"

"I think she began about six years ago, and it lasted for only a few months, from April to early June."

Fakir was silent for a moment, before he looked at Paulo and Paulamoni and said, "I'll contact you if I have any more questions. Do you have a telephone line in here?"

After obtaining the studio's phone number and saying a brief farewell, Fakir stepped back out onto the street, deep in thought.

The revelation that Rue had once rented a studio here, and that the time of her being here overlapped with when Mytho left the school, convinced Fakir that it was likely during this time that the two of them had met. What exactly happened after that he still had no clue, but the valuable information he had just gathered boosted his confidence considerably.

He returned to the precinct with his head filled with theories and ideas about what could have taken place in that dance studio all those years ago.

As Fakir was taking off his hat, he spotted an unfamiliar manila envelope on his desk. He picked up the envelope and flipped it around to examine it, but saw only his name written on the front side.

Trying to figure out where this mysterious delivery had come from, he looked over at Malen, who was working at her desk nearby.

"Malen," Fakir raised the envelope into the air to demonstrate, "do you know where this came from?"

Malen glanced up from her typewriter and pushed up her glasses. "Oh, that. Aren't those the files you wanted delivered here? A boy dropped it off earlier, so I left it on your desk."

Fakir's brows drew together. "But I didn't ask for anything to be delivered to the precinct."

Malen blinked, clearly confused. "Eh? But that's what the messenger boy had said, I'm quite sure of it. It even had your name on the front."

_Just because something has my name on it does not mean it automatically belongs to me_, Fakir wanted to retort, but he held himself in check.

Looking back at the envelope, he thought he might as well open it and see what was inside. Without bothering to get a letter opener, Fakir worked his finger underneath one edge of the envelope flap and gingerly tore one of the ends open. With one hand holding the edge of the envelope, he upended the contents and a single black and white photograph fell out into his waiting hand.

Fakir held up the photograph and saw that it showed the tops of some unidentified buildings as if someone was looking up at them from street level. There were no trees, so he couldn't tell what time of year the photo had been taken, save that the sky had been clear that day.

Growing more and more perplexed by this strange package, Fakir turned the photo over, hoping there would be some clue on the back. Instead, what he saw only mystified him further.

_Βρείτε __μου__ στην εορτή__ των Θεοφανείων__._

Fakir could recognize that the letters were in Greek, but beyond that he hadn't a clue what the words meant. Unable to make sense of what any of this was supposed to say, he shook his head with frustration.

"This has to be some kind of stupid prank," he grumbled and shoved the photo with its unintelligible message back into the envelope, before trudging toward the dustbin.

Seeing him about to chuck the packet into the trash, Malen spoke up timidly, "Fakir, are you sure it's alright to throw that away? The boy who delivered it told me that the man who gave him the envelope said it was very important that you receive it."

Fakir's hand clutching the envelope, which had already been half raised above the wastebasket, froze in place as he looked up sharply at Malen. "What man? Do you know who he was?"

Malen shook her head vehemently, "No, just that the boy mentioned the man had white hair and—"

"When was this?" Fakir demanded, his eyes immediately wide and alert. "Are you _sure_ that's what he said?"

Taken aback by Fakir's sudden insistence, Malen shrank back, but nodded, "Yes, I-I'm sure. He said the man had white hair and wore a white suit. As for when the boy had come by…I think it was about 45 minutes ago."

Fakir was now convinced that the person who'd sent this package had been none other than Mytho himself. But what did it all mean? What was Mytho trying to tell him through this photograph and the foreign expression on the back?

The young detective removed the photo from the envelope again and scrutinized the Greek characters more closely. He knew it had to be a message of some sort, but simply staring at these incomprehensible symbols would do him no good at present. Tearing his eyes away from the inscrutable sentence, Fakir flipped the photo over and sought to find some clues from the snapshot itself.

On one of the buildings in the foreground, of which only the upper portions were visible, he took note of a stone cornice with a decorative façade, featuring an eagle standing over a plaque with a "Y" shape in the middle. The side of the building had once been white-washed but due to age the paint near the roof had began to fade, revealing the dark brickwork beneath. To the left of this building, the corner of a shorter building was visible, and Fakir could make out the end of a billboard sign, with the letters "il" visible.

In front of the taller building was a utility pole, and based on the relative height of the pole to the buildings behind it, Fakir deduced that the taller building was three stories tall, while the shorter building was two stories. Finally, in the background, Fakir could make out three smoke stacks, the middle one emitting a plume of thick black smoke.

Fakir grimaced. If this place was in New York, it was not a place he recognized, and even that was a conjecture as the location depicted in the photograph could have been anywhere. It seemed deciphering the Greek writing might prove to be the most feasible thing to do at the moment.

He briefly considered perhaps finding someone who knew Greek to translate the sentence for him, but Fakir quickly squelched that idea. The only person in the department likely to know any Greek was the captain himself, who had been a second-generation Greek immigrant. But how would Fakir explain to him the source of the unusual photograph that had shown up mysteriously on his desk? Bringing the whole matter up to the captain would be much more complicated than he'd want it to be.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Fakir glanced up and saw Malen peering back at him tentatively, and he became aware of how long he must've been staring at the photo while still standing next to her.

He cleared his throat and put the photo away. "Uh…sorry, my mistake. I did ask for this to be delivered, but it…it's just that I had asked for it some time ago and didn't remember that I had until now. So anyway, Malen, do you know if there's a bookstore nearby with a good section on foreign languages?"

"I'm not sure about foreign languages per se, but…there's a bookseller on Jackson Street that I know that has a good section on art," Malen looked down and blushed. "So I think they might also have some language books there too, since—"

But before Malen could finish speaking, Fakir had already strolled past her, adjusting his hat as he went, turning back and saying briskly to her, "Thanks, I'll be right back if the captain asks!"

Once he had arrived there, the store Malen recommended turned out to have a healthy selection of Greek language books for Fakir to peruse. He plucked out a small, practical-looking dictionary, and hurried at once back to the office. Once he had returned to his desk, Fakir carefully took out the photo, positioned it so that people passing by would not readily see what he was working on, and started to translate the sentence.

Working with a completely unfamiliar language was like trying to decipher a code, albeit in this case not a very difficult one. Nonetheless, even with the dictionary's aid, Fakir spent the rest of the afternoon diligently working on sorting out the letters and their meanings. By the time he was done, the sun had already set, and the office had gone quiet as the other detectives had already left for the day and the night shift only beginning to arrive.

His elbows resting on the edge of his desk, Fakir glowered at the paper before him. Lines of ink had crossed out numerous incorrect translations here and there on the paper, mixed in with notes he had taken. At the bottom of the heavily written-on sheet of paper was a clear sentence, circled in black ink.

"_Find me on the Feast of Epiphany."*_

Fakir thought back to an early summer afternoon, when he was still only ten years old. School had been let out for the day, and while other children headed off to play baseball or buy bonbons from the town's soda shop, Fakir instead made a beeline for the St. Vitus Orphanage and Refuge. He carried a short stack of books tied together with a sturdy belt, tucked securely under his arm as the boy ran across town.

When he arrived at the door, a sister who was sweeping the floor had spotted him and after a brief greeting, let the boy in. Fakir headed for the small classroom within the orphanage compound, and paused when half a dozen children came rushing past him after being released from a three-hour long study session, eager to go play in the orphanage courtyard. None of them stopped to ask Fakir to come along and play with them, but the taciturn boy for his part had no interest in their trivial games anyway.

When Fakir failed to spot Mytho amongst the passing cadre of orphans, he continued toward the classroom. When Fakir got there, he finally found the person he'd come to see.

Sitting beside the Father who ran the orphanage, Mytho glanced up when Fakir appeared at the door. The orphanage director—whom everyone called Father Muller*—had kind eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard, and he also noted Fakir's presence. He nodded to Mytho in response when the fair haired boy had looked up at him, mutely seeking permission to be excused.

"We will continue with your Greek lessons later this afternoon," Father Muller smiled at his charge, "and you can practice writing the characters after supper and once the evening chores have been done."

"Yes, Father," Mytho bowed his head, before picking up his notebook and pencil and coming out to meet Fakir. The two then proceeded to head towards the chapel at the eastern end of the orphanage.

In the hallway toward their destination, Fakir readjusted his small stack of books under his arm and began asking, "Why did Father Muller start teaching you Greek all of a sudden?" The pair of boys let themselves into the small, empty chapel as Fakir sat down at his usual spot at the first pew on the right. "He's not expecting you to become a priest, is he?"

At this suggestion, Mytho laughed. "No, actually _I_ asked Father Muller to teach me Greek," he explained, taking off his shoes and sitting down on the concrete floor to start doing his stretches. "He knows both Greek and Latin, and he said he'll teach me how to read the Greek Scriptures."

"But that doesn't explain _why_ you'd want to learn it. I don't see why it'd be of any use, for ballet or otherwise," Fakir stated frankly, unfastening his stack of books and picking up the one on top. That particular book was a brand new detective novel just released off the presses, and he had been long looking forward to reading it—but right now, as Fakir gazed inquiringly at his friend, the Mystery of the Greek Student was of far greater interest to the young boy.

From his sitting position on the ground, Mytho asked, "Fakir, do you know what your name means?"

"Well, yeah…" Fakir set the book down onto his lap. "But what does that have to do with you learning Greek?"

Mytho stood up and rested one foot on the back of the pew as if it was a barre, bending forward to stretch. "Father Muller told me yesterday that my name is derived from the Greek word for 'story'."

He straightened his back and gazed up at the figure of the Madonna and Child above the chapel alter. "I don't know who my mother was, or why I was left at the orphanage—just that she may have been Greek, based on my name. That's why I think if I learn more about the language that she might have spoken, I might learn more about who I am, and who my family was." He closed his eyes thoughtfully. "Maybe she was trying to tell me something, that there is a great story of mine out there for me to discover."

Switching legs, Mytho took a few minutes longer to finish his warm up exercises compared to those of the girls Fakir had seen at the ballet school. When he finally looked back at Fakir, there was a solemn expression on the dark haired boy's face.

"But, what if what you'll find is something you'd rather not know?" Fakir asked, with gravity in his young voice that belied the boy's age. "What if it's not a story you'd want to hear?"

Mytho frowned. "I really don't know. But, if I don't start looking," he said, his expression turning into a small smile, "then I won't know either way, whether it will be a happy story or a sad story. And even sad stories are meant to be heard, right?"

Fakir pondered this over, before picking up the novel that he had set aside. "I guess you're right. You can't tell who the culprit is if you don't get to the end of the book." He pursed his lips, "Unless _you're_ the detective, of course. Then you can find out the answer before you read it."

At this, Fakir remembered that Mytho had laughed heartily, and the chimes of that innocent laughter still rang in the detective's ears. _What is it that you want to show me, Mytho?_ Fakir wondered silently.

Looking back down at his translation, Fakir knew that the Feast of the Epiphany was on January 6th, which wasn't for at least three more weeks. Fakir was sure that the place shown in the photograph was the location Mytho intended to be at on the celebration of Epiphany, but as much as he racked his brains, Fakir could not for the life of him figure out where this place could be. Knowing when but not _where_ something was occurring wasn't going to help him much.

The telephone next to Fakir suddenly rang. Aggravated by the intrusion, Fakir picked up the earpiece and said brusquely, "What is it?"

"Hello, Fakir."

At the sound of Mytho's voice over the crackling phone line, Fakir rose sharply from his desk, nearly knocking his chair over. "Mytho, is that you?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yes. I admit our last conversation had been somewhat abrupt," Mytho said, though it was hard to hear him through the poor connection as his voice cracked and dipped over the phone line.

"Why are you calling me? No wait, tell me: why did you send me that photo? What are you trying to get at?" Fakir demanded, pressing the earpiece flat against his ear, straining to hear his answer while his other hand picked the photo back up.

"If you have truly accomplished your dream of becoming a detective, Fakir, you'll understand the meaning behind that photo, and where to find me when the appointed time comes."

The connection buzzed as though about to be cut off, and Mytho said, "Before I leave, I just want to remind you: it's not safe to let a young lady walk home from work all alone after dark."

With that the line went dead. It took a full second for the last sentence Mytho had said to sink in.

_Duck. Oh God, they know about Duck. _

The earpiece in his hand slipped out with a "clunk" onto his desk, as his eyes widened in horror. He had been so engrossed in his work the entire day, he hadn't realized it was now long past Duck's work hours, and by now she would surely be on her way home. All alone.

A profound feeling of dread seized Fakir's fast-beating heart, and he hurriedly thrust the photo still in his hand into a pocket, grabbed his coat and hat, and with only the thought that he might reach her in time, sprinted as fast as he could through the front doors of the precinct, and towards the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop.

* * *

"Bye, Duck! See you later!" Pique and Lilie called out as they waved goodbye to their friend.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow!" Duck waved back, and watched as the shop door closed behind them. Turning dutifully back to her work, she picked up the damp cloth and continued wiping down the shop window. Outside the sun had long set and a cold wind was picking up.

Mr. Kotin yawned, daintily covering his mouth as he entered the shop front and set down a pair of newly made toe shoes on the counter. He raised a brow when he saw Duck cleaning the shop display window. "Still working, Miss Duck? I thought you'd already have left with Miss Pique and Miss Lilie by now."

The shop girl stopped in her work to look at her employer and smiled sheepishly, "I want to try to make up a little for being late again yesterday." _Besides_, Duck turned back to the window, _Fakir isn't here yet either_.

Her hand paused as her blue eyes scanned the street beyond looking for that familiar figure. _He's being awfully late today. I wonder if it's because of Mytho? He did say yesterday that he wanted to stop by the dance studio…_

Duck absentmindedly turned around but nearly jumped out of her socks when she found Mr. Kotin standing right behind her, also peering out the window.

"That young man isn't here tonight," he remarked, stroking his mustache. "He's usually very punctual. Such is a sign of a truly devoted man. Indeed, faith and commitment are two crucial components of a blissful marriage!"

Duck could practically hear the church bells ringing about Mr. Kotin's head, and was about to disenchant him of that idea when he added, "Ah, it reminds me of when that boy used to come by and wait for Elsa. How nostalgic!"

"Eh!" At this Duck's mouth dropped open in surprise. "But Ma never mentioned anything like that to me before…"

_Could it be…Mytho? _Perhaps Mr. Kotin had an idea of why Mytho would have known her mother! Thus Duck ventured to ask, "Mr. Kotin? Do you remember what that boy looked like? Or what his name was?"

Mr. Kotin scratched his chin, thinking as he spoke, "Well…I recall that he had snow white hair and such a lovely, handsome face. Elsa mentioned once that he was a student of hers from the studio, that his name was…oh, was it Mute? No, no—Mytho, that's it!"

Duck's eyes lit up at this revelation and she entreated her employer further, "When was this? Do you remember?"

Folding his hands behind his back, Mr. Kotin reflected aloud, "It was a number of years ago, six or seven years I think. He came around here quite often and accompanied Elsa to the studio, and then he disappeared after a few months. I didn't think much of it at first, but about a year afterward, he came by one last time, looking for Elsa."

Here Mr. Kotin turned to Duck and said solemnly, "His last visit came after your mother had passed away and I broke the news to him. He was absolutely devastated. I imagine Elsa had to have been a very special mentor to him for the young man to have such a deep attachment to her."

_So Mytho _did_ know Ma_! Duck thought excitedly. This information still might not prove to be much use in the case, but Duck was nonetheless eager to tell Fakir of her findings. _Where _is_ he today?_ _He's never been late before, much less _this_ late_.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She had needed to stop by the grocer today, but Fakir's absence had delayed her departure much more than she had anticipated. If she didn't leave soon, Mrs. Ebine's was going to close, and then she wouldn't even have wilting cabbage to eat the next day.

Sighing, Duck finally put the rag back into the cleaning supply closet, and after a quick "Good night" to Mr. Kotin, closed the door of the pointe shoe shop behind her and walked out onto the street.

Ever since she'd witnessed the murder, Duck had begun taking a different route to Ebine's store. However, this path was dimly lit in stretches, islands of pale streetlights interspersed among spaces of near pitch darkness. During the daytime when Duck usually traversed the path it was well lit by sunlight, but once the sun had sunk below the horizon, the shadowy streets were much less inviting. Duck apprehensively navigated this otherwise familiar route, more alert and wary now that Fakir wasn't there behind her.

In the distance she could hear the vague droning of motors and the bark of stray dogs that wandered the streets. Dark, huddled figures passed her by, appearing and disappearing within the shadowed zones between the stark lamplights. She didn't think she'd feel Fakir's absence so acutely, but after having had him at her back for so long, without him the night felt much more threatening and sinister.

The longer she walked, the more acutely she sensed that a pair of feet was following her. At first she told herself it was just her imagination, not seeing anyone there the first few times she had glanced behind her to check. But after traveling a few more blocks, Duck turned around just in time to see a dark figure dart into an alley behind her.

Unnerved, Duck picked up her pace and instead of heading towards the grocer as planned, she turned promptly towards home. All she wanted now was to be inside her apartment where it was safe. Marching so rapidly that she was almost running, Duck glanced behind her again and saw that the figure was racing to catch up to her. At this point she broke out into a full-on sprint.

Clutching onto her hat and handbag, she shot past street vendors and other pedestrians, veered around a sharp corner, and dodged through traffic, her heavy gasps leaving a trail of vapor clouds behind her.

After turning another corner, Duck had to pause to catch her breath. She was now only two blocks away from home, and when she looked for the figure that had been chasing her, he was nowhere to be seen along the quiet street.

Relieved that she'd apparently managed to ditch him, Duck started jogging towards home. She had run barely a few yards when a tall figure wearing a fedora appeared from around the corner in front of her.

She sighed in relief before accosting him, "Fakir, where have you been! I was waiting—!"

Duck stopped dead as the figure walked into the lamplight: it was not Fakir at all, but instead one of the two shotgun-toting bodyguards who had carried out that fateful murder, to which she had been the sole witness.

She immediately turned to flee, but the man stalking her earlier seized her from behind and pressed a chloroform soaked towel to her face.

"Mmmmph!" Duck screamed, the towel muffling her voice. She tried to kick and thrash about, but her assailants gripped firmly onto her arms and torso.

They yanked her into a nearby alley, and as the chloroform started to take effect, Duck was dimly aware of a pair of car headlights parked at the other end of the alleyway, before her vision began to blur and fade out.

Suddenly Duck heard a loud noise and the hand holding the chloroform towel to her face fell away and she sank onto the cold concrete. She closed her eyes, her head spinning. When she opened them again, she saw the back of a familiar figure standing over her.

"Fa…kir?" she murmured blearily.

"Duck, run!" shouted Fakir's voice.

Duck's vision snapped back into focus. The dark haired detective had planted himself in front of her, breathing heavily as he fended off one of her attackers, while the other was picking himself off the ground after apparently having been tackled by the detective.

Duck's eyes widened with shock. "F…Fakir!"

"RUN!"

With a sharp whimper, Duck stumbled to her feet and scampered towards the alley's entryway.

One of the mobsters gave chase, and as his hand reached out it would have clasped around Duck's long braid, had Fakir not delivered a solid punch across the man's jaw. The blow sent the mobster to his knees, giving Duck time to dart around the corner and out of harm's way.

Having seen Duck escape, Fakir heaved a sigh of relief. But he was unaware of the second thug who'd picked up a stray plank of wood from the ground and, before the detective could react, struck Fakir soundly on the back of his head.

Fakir collapsed onto the ground. Taking advantage of the detective's dazed state, the man who'd struck him picked up the chloroform soaked towel and pressed it firmly onto his face. Fakir tried to pull the man's hand away, but it was no use. After a few minutes of futile struggling, Fakir's body went limp as he fell unconscious.

As the thug who'd been struck by Fakir massaged his swollen cheek gingerly, his crony with the wooden plank dropped his weapon and the towel to the ground and hurried over to the car parked at the end of the alley.

When the mobster stopped beside the car, the window rolled down, revealing Mytho and Don Corvo sitting in the back seat.

"The girl got away," their underling reported. "What should we do now, Boss?"

Mytho looked to Don Corvo, who was twisting the raven ring on his finger pensively.

"Take the copper with you. We'll just have to cut our losses," the Don said gruffly. "Also, pick up the reporter fellow—we're not leaving any loose ends this time."

Seated beside the patriarch, Mytho said nothing, but his beige colored brows furrowed as the car window slid closed again.

* * *

Duck was unsure of where she was headed; she only knew that her legs had to keep running. The city streets, the people, the cars – all of them whizzed past her like a surreal, disjointed film.

After what seemed like an eternity, she somehow found herself in front of the Stein Jewelry Store.

As Edel stood outside the door, locking up the store for the evening, Duck stumbled toward her and collapsed at the jeweler's feet. Edel gently lifted the red haired girl back onto her feet. "Duck, what's wrong?"

A rare expression of shock appeared on the woman's face when she saw the profuse tears streaming down Duck's flushed face. Duck wrapped her arms tightly around Edel's waist, sobbing uncontrollably.

"F-Fakir! Oh, Miss Edel…th-they got Fakir!"

* * *

A/N

For those interested in seeing Fakir's mystery photograph for themselves, there's a link to a sketch I drew on my author's profile page.

*"…_this thing_ of ours" is one way the Mafia refers to itself. The real name of the Sicilian mafia is "Cosa Nostra", literately "Our Thing". It wasn't until the 1960's that this became known publicly. Some of you might know the name as "La Cosa Nostra", but in fact the article "La" was added by the FBI; the Italian mafia does not employ the article.

*The Feast of (the) Epiphany is a Christian holiday celebrated on January 6th in the Western Gregorian calendar. It commemorates the day when the Three Magi visited the infant Jesus and thus Jesus as the Son of God was revealed to mankind. The holiday isn't as well-known or celebrated in the US as it is in other places (i.e. Europe for example), but I'd expect someone raised in a church-ran orphanage, such as Mytho in this case, to be familiar with the occasion. Credit Google Translate for the Greek; I only hope it was at least grammatically correct.

*Father Muller is named after George Muller, the 19th century founder of the Ashley Down orphanage in Bristol, England. He was well-known for the high standard of education he provided to his charges.

Phew, that was a long chapter! And before anyone asks, um…no, I haven't started writing the next chapter yet, but I definitely will after I finish my departmental seminar presentation. (Dodges objects thrown at her)

Once again, thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The first rays of the sun dawned on a gray hazy morning in Manhattan as Mytho appeared at the entrance of the Corvo residence. Behind him the Gray Ghost silently pulled away from the curb as he was admitted into the building. The butler escorted him down halls covered in rich, crimson wallpaper, walls decorated with paintings in antique gold frames. Occasionally there was a marble bust or statue, their hollow pupils gazing unseeingly into nowhere as the two men walked past.

Mytho was led to a large set of double doors where the butler took his leave. The young man gave two soft raps on the hardwood and a low, gruff voice answered, "Come in."

Inside the room, Don Corvo sat in a high-back leather armchair beside the window, his figure wrapped in a deep purple dressing grown. The heavy curtains were drawn and only a needle-thin ray of light penetrated the room. The Don cradled a wine glass in his hands, a dusty bottle sitting on the table beside him. As Mytho walked into the room, he saw that the yellowed label on the bottle was none other then the Don's prized 1891 Brunello di Montalcino.

"What gave you the urge to indulge this morning, Father?"

The old man scoffed. "This is not an indulgence, Mytho. After last night's debacle I needed something to soothe my nerves, and this rich wine never fails to calm me and help me think." The Don brought the glass to his lips and paused to breathe in its aroma.

Mytho watched as the Don tipped the glass and drained his cup before he said, "Have you decided what you will do with them?"

"There are fools everywhere, nowadays," the Don gestured his hand in the air in disgust. "Back in my day, people knew their places and respected authority. _Real_ authority. But now, every damn young idiot thinks he can take on the world. I think," here the Don paused and slowly pushed himself up from his chair, "that it's time we showed all the fools in this city the consequences of meddling with the business of Domenico Corvo."

The Don walked to a polished wooden cabinet and pulled out a ring of keys from an inner pocket of his robe. With one of those keys he opened a drawer and took out an object wrapped carefully in a piece of faded red silk. Don Corvo unwrapped the silk to reveal a stiletto knife, sheathed in a case of leather that appeared even older than the silk wrapping.

As he made his way back to Mytho, the Don unsheathed the knife, and laid it across his palm. The blade of the knife was no wider than a man's thumb, but it narrowed to a fine point until it was needle sharp. The handle of the knife resembled a perched raven sitting atop the short curved guard of the blade, the only decoration on the cold and deadly weapon.

Mytho's eyes remained fixed on the object, and he must have betrayed his surprise for the Don smirked knowingly as he held the knife in front of Mytho. "The gun is a useful tool, Mytho, but even an idiot can shoot a gun. A knife on the other hand, requires skill and precision, and most importantly, it requires conviction."

The Don took Mytho's hand and placed the stiletto in his protégé's palm. He placed his other hand over the knife and hooded red eyes locked with Mytho's golden eyes. "This knife has been in the family for generations, and within every generation it has been put to use for dispatching our enemies," Don Corvo said in a soft yet deathly still voice. "By learning how to obey, you will learn how to command. * You will inherit my place some day, Mytho. And in order to do, so you must be prepared to destroy any threat to the family yourself, _with your own hands_. Do you understand?"

Mytho narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the sliver of cold steel and the withered hand of the Don clasping his palm. Shutting his eyes, he raised the Don's hand, and the knife, to his lips.

* * *

The first thing Fakir was aware of as his mind returned to consciousness was the sound of water dripping steadily nearby. As the rhythmic noise became louder and clearer Fakir felt a dull, aching sensation on the back of his head, as if something very hard had crashed into his skull…

Fakir's eyes snapped open and he woke violently with a start. The sudden movement made his vision dance about like that of someone who'd drank too much hooch. He let out a deep groan and squeezed his eyelids shut.

It took him several moments before he was able to open them again without feeling nauseous, and several more minutes passed before he was able to put disjointed thoughts together to recall what had happened.

There was Duck, Fakir recollected, and two men. They were trying to abduct her but he managed to stop them, and Duck got away. After that, his memories were vague, but Fakir was fairly certain one of the men had struck him with a hard object, after which something sweet and cloying was pressed into his face. Then, nothingness.

By then the colors and shapes in front of him had stopped spinning, and Fakir tried to stand to get a better bearing on his surroundings. However he quickly realized he could not move at all. His arms were drawn up above his head, wrists tied together by chains around a steel support beam that rose up from the floor behind him. He sat kneeling on the cold concrete, his feet bound together by a second length of chains. Fakir tried to wiggle his wrists free, but the chains were tightly secured. He hadn't felt the strain in his arms at first because of the lingering effects of the chloroform, but now his muscles burned and even small motions sent jolts of pain down his limbs.

"Damn," Fakir cursed. He could feel his heart begun to beat faster, his breaths quickening as fear and panic began to bubble up in the back of his mind. Trying to stave off the instinctual desire to fight or run, Fakir closed his eyes and commanded himself to take several long breaths in an effort to calm himself.

_Panicking will not help you_, he told himself. _Think! Use your head: what can you do to try to get out of this situation?_ Even if he could not escape his bonds, Fakir reasoned he could still look for ways to escape when he got the chance. If he could discern where he was, then he might have a chance, however slim, of alerting the precinct so he could be rescued. With that thought, Fakir opened his eyes again and studied the room in which he was held captive.

Overhead a maze of pipes ran across the ceiling and the damp air smelt of mildew. There were no windows in the dim basement and the only light came from two dusty light bulbs, one hanging from the center of the ceiling and a second over the whitewashed door across from him, positioned at the top of a set of wooden stairs. Several piles of wooden crates were stacked around the room. Looking at the one closest to him, Fakir could just make out the top of a label "La Fragante Rosa" but the words below had been smudged, as a leaky pipe overhead had soaked the side of the crate facing him and caused the ink to run on the damp paper.

Fakir could tell all of the boxes shared the same label and design, but still they gave him no information about his whereabouts. Hoping there might be some other route of escape in the room, Fakir turned toward a corner when he caught sight of a familiar figure slumped in a chair.

"Autor!" Fakir jerked against his restraints and was rewarded with a fresh jolt of pain down his arms.

The journalist was unconscious, with his head slumped forward and his mouth gagged by a rag. Fakir relaxed a fraction when he saw Autor's chest rise and fall. Still, whoever brought him here hadn't bothered to be gentle. His glasses were missing and there was a tear in his suit. What was most chilling, however, was the fact that the chair's legs were set in blocks of concrete. Fakir had all too clear of an idea what the Corvos planned to do to the reporter; if they didn't find a way to escape soon, both of them would find themselves at the bottom of the Hudson River.

"Autor! Wake up! Hey!" Fakir called out, trying to keep his voice low lest there was a guard posted outside. Fakir waited tensely, and after a few seconds Autor began to stir. Trying again, Fakir urged him, "Wake up! Autor!"

Autor's eyes blinked and he let out a muffled moan. He looked toward Fakir's voice, looking dazed and confused. But it quickly changed to panic when he realized he was bound and gagged.

"MMMMM!"

To Fakir's dismay, Autor started screaming. With the gag in his mouth Autor's voice was muffled, but he started thrashing around in a desperate attempt to free himself, causing the concrete blocks on the chair to scrape noisily against the floor.

"Autor, stop it! They'll hear you!" Fakir whispered hurriedly, but even as the words left his mouth he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching from outside.

Cursing under his breath, Fakir implored, "Autor, stop! They're coming! Damn it, _stop!_"

The door to the cellar swung open and two men dressed in dark suits appeared. One of them was smoking a cigarette, while the other had a square of dressing on the side of his face, and Fakir recognized them as the same men who had attacked Duck. The angle of the stairs partially concealed Fakir so that the two men did not notice him upon entering, and instead they made their way towards Autor.

"Now, what is that ruckus I hear? What's that noise sound like to you, Frankie?" joked the man with the cigarette to his companion as they stopped in front of Autor.

The man with the injured cheek sneered and leaned in close to the terrified reporter whose screams had dwindled into a pathetic whimper at the sight of the mobsters. "It sounds to me like a squealin' pig."

As Frankie leaned in, he breathed down Autor's face and whispered, "And ya know what we do with pigs?" He traced a line down Autor's ear with a finger, "we cut off their ears," he tapped Autor's nose, "chop off their noses," and made a motion of drawing with his thumb down Autor's chest, "and then we gut 'em!"

By now Autor was shaking uncontrollably and the two mobsters tossed their heads back, guffawing. But their laughter was cut short when a voice shouted out, "Hey!" The mobsters' heads snapped around at the source of the voice and saw Fakir, straining against the chains around his arms, glaring at them. "Pick on someone your own size, you bastards!"

Frankie pulled away from the hyperventilating Autor and laughed, his dark eyes meeting the detective's glare. "Hey Paul, looks like the copper's awake," Frankie said to his partner as they made their way over to stand beside Fakir.

Towering over the restrained detective, Frankie stared down at the defiant dark haired man. "Even though he's all tied up, the copper thinks he can still order us around, eh?"

Without warning, Frankie kicked Fakir hard in the gut, sending the detective crashing into the steel beam that bound him.

"_That_ was for yesterday!" Frankie grinned cruelly, running his thumb across the dressing on his cheek. To the side, the now forgotten Autor shuddered from the horrible retching sound as Fakir coughed violently.

Before Fakir could recover, the brutish mobster struck Fakir across the face with his fist. As Fakir coughed and groaned from the blows, Frankie cracked his knuckles, "and _this_ is for trying to give us orders!"

"_No one_ gives _us_ orders around here, and definitely not a chained-up dog like you!" Paul took the cigarette from his mouth and smirked sadistically. "Maybe I ought'a teach you a little lesson."

Paul exchanged a goading look with his partner, and Frankie nodded as the cruel smile on his face widened. The man with the wounded face reached down, grabbed a fist full of Fakir's hair and yanked his head back.

A trickle of blood ran down the edge of Fakir's lips as he struggled against Frankie's grip. But between the chains around his hands and the mobster's vice-like grip, he could do little but watch with rasping breaths as, with relish, Paul slowly brought the burning tip of the cigarette toward Fakir's exposed neck.

"What are you two doing?"

The two mobsters' heads whipped around. The cigarette in Paul's hand dropped onto the bare concrete floor as four pairs of eyes turned to see Mytho standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes overshadowed by the brim of his white fedora.

* * *

The 53rd precinct was in a state of frenzy. The news that a young woman had been attacked and that mobsters had kidnapped a police detective had spread like wildfire. A slew of reporters and photographers jammed the entrance to the precinct, snapping pictures and pushing to speak with anyone who ventured into or out of the building. Inside the precinct, phones were ringing almost constantly, and police officers rushed about the building with great urgency in efforts to locate the kidnapped detective.

Duck sat in Charon's office, insulated from the exterior's whirlwind of movement. She looked out into the gray morning beyond the captain's dusty office window, her usually bright blue eyes red and puffy. She had first been in the same office not too many months ago, when on that fateful night she had first met Fakir. Duck sniffed and rubbed her nose absently with her hand, hugging closer the blanket that was wrapped around her.

After narrowly escaping the mobsters and stumbling into Edel on the street, she had tried to explain to the jewelry shop owner what had happened, though her words had been so frequently interrupted by sobs that she was almost unintelligible. Yet Edel had seemed to grasp the situation quickly, and after leading Duck into her shop, had called the police.

Duck couldn't recall what exactly had happened in the last twelve plus hours, save for hazy memories of being whisked away by a police car and meeting the captain here in the precinct. The interview with the captain along with other police officials she did not know felt as if it had went on for hours, though according to the clock it probably hadn't taken more than half an hour. It ended when Charon had glanced back up at Duck, studied her, and then had abruptly concluded the interview and called for a blanket to be brought in for her.

"You should rest a little, Miss Stannus. I will come check on you in a few hours. If you need anything please let Malen know," he had said, resting his hand on her shoulders. "We will find Fakir. I promise you."

It was only after the captain had left the office and when Malen had come in with a blanket that Duck realized she was shivering, and wordlessly allowed the bespectacled secretary to gently drape the blanket over her shoulders.

The clock on the wall ticked rhythmically, numbingly, as hours passed and Charon still did not return. Duck sat there, eyes half closed. She wasn't sure if she actually fell asleep at any point during the night, but whenever she closed her eyes, she would see Fakir's face as he was shouting at her to escape.

"_RUN!"_

And she had run. Run as fast as her legs could carry her from danger. But Fakir…

Duck squeezed her eyes shut. Her mental image resurfaced of an anonymous man crumpled in a bloody heap in a dark alley, but this time the man had been replaced by Fakir, the noise of machine guns filling her ears.

The door clicked and Duck's eyes flitted open to see Charon entering the office. The captain's shirt collar was wrinkled and his stiff movements showed his fatigue. Duck stood from her chair, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she asked urgently, "Have you found him? Did you find Fakir?"

Charon sighed and shook his head. He sank down into the worn leather chair behind his desk. "We've exhausted all of our contacts in the neighborhood and various other boroughs, but not one useful tip has surfaced. Either no one knows, or those that do are just too scared to say anything. And what's worse, it seems a journalist named Autor Brahms who's been investigating the Corvos has gone missing as well." He sighed. "I believe the attack on you, Fakir, and Mr. Brahms is no coincidence. It looks like the Corvos have finally decided to take action against those they deem to be a threat to their operations."

"But…but I'm the witness they want!" Duck pressed her hand to her chest. "Why would they take Fakir?!"

"Fakir is the lead investigator on the Corvo case, Miss Stannus. With him gone, our case against them would suffer a severe setback," Charon grimaced. "Between him, yourself, and the reporter, the knowledge that the three of you possess combined would create a powerful case against them. It's something the mob would not tolerate."

"So you mean, they'll…" Duck tasted bile rising at the back of her throat and her face grew pale.

Charon gently touched her hand from across the table. "I merely wanted to update you on the current situation. We must hold onto the hope that Fakir will be found." _Hopefully alive and sound_, the captain prayed silently.

"Isn't there anything, anything at all that I can do to help?" Duck asked earnestly.

Charon stood up from his seat and smiled sadly at the young woman across from him. "The Corvos will still be on the look out for you, Miss Stannus. You will be safe for now here in the precinct, but you can't stay here forever. I've already contacted the Marshals Service and they've agreed to set up a temporary safe house for you before a permanent one is established."

When Duck frowned in confusion, Charon continued, "You will be given a new identity and placed somewhere where the mob won't find you. It will take a while to work all the details out, but you will be safe. "*

"But I would be running away! I can't do that, not when Fakir's still missing!" Duck shouted, unable to believe that the captain was suggesting for her to abandon Fakir just so she could run off and hide.

"Please understand. I know Fakir would've wanted to see you safe as well."

Duck sat back down, defeated by those words. It's true, she thought. If Fakir were here, she knew he'd be yelling and bullying her to be placed into protective custody. All because he, more than anyone else, wanted to protect her.

Tears dripped from Duck's eyes onto her clenched fists, slipping down onto her lap. No matter how annoying, aggravating, or rude Fakir had been, he'd always been looking out for her safety. And now he was gone, because he had protected her. A sob escaped Duck's throat as her tears fell freely.

"Jerk...Why do you always…have to try to protect me?" Duck cried, hiccupping between her words, even as she knew the answer. "I'm…I'm just a shop girl, who can't dance…who's always late for work. Wh-why did you have to…to put your life on the line…f-for me?"

It was just like the day her mother had died. She could only watch helplessly as the deathly ill Elsa took her last struggling breath. Like then, the weight of her helplessness was so unbearable that Duck felt as though her heart would be crushed by it.

Charon watched with deep pity as Duck's tears streamed down, staining her cheeks. He felt horribly guilty for making her cry and for using the girl's concern for Fakir to compel her. However, with two missing people and a precinct in chaos, Charon had to ensure that Duck did what they needed her to do to keep her safe.

Walking up to Duck, Charon wanted to offer her a handkerchief but found his own pockets empty. Seeing a napkin sticking out from Duck's forgotten purse that sat in the chair beside her, he bent over, pulled out the napkin, and handed it to Duck, who reached out to grab it.

As Duck brought the napkin to her face, her tear-blurred eyes could make out a few rows of dark letters. She wiped her face on her sleeve and blinked at the crumbled paper.

_You can reach me by these numbers._

_Rue_

Below were three rows of telephone numbers, with one denoted "Home", the second one "Father's place", and the third "Agent".

A sudden thought struck Duck. Turning sharply to a very surprised Charon, Duck pleaded to him, the tears on her face not yet dried, "Captain, please let me use your telephone! There's someone I have to call!"

* * *

"Boss!" Paul's lips twitched twice before he hurriedly plastered a smile on his face as Mytho descended the stairs, "You sure surprised us there! Didn't think you'd be back so soon. We thought we'd soften him up for ya while you were gone, ya see—!"

Before Paul could finish his sentence he found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but did I hear you say you two don't take orders from anyone?" Mytho said placidly, which made Paul turn pale.

"Th-that's not we meant, boss. We'll only listen to you, and the Don of course, y-you know that—" Frankie stammered, but in a flash, found himself looking down the barrel of a second gun.

"Is that so?" Mytho looked down on the brutish mobster, who gulped visibly as Mytho fixed him with a dangerous glare and slowly, deliberately moved the second gun until the tip of the cold, steel barrel touched Frankie's now sweat-stained forehead. "I don't recall myself or Father giving orders for _this_."

Mytho looked at Fakir and the roughed-up state the detective was in. The two thugs seemed to get the message, and Frankie hurriedly let go of Fakir, who collapsed against the metal beam, gasping for breath.

Mytho lifted the guns up and the moment the barrel retreated from their heads the two lackeys scrambled away, uttering apologies as they retreated up the stairs and left their master alone with the two captives. Wordlessly Mytho placed the twin guns back into the shoulder holster that he wore underneath his coat. As the door to the cellar closed and the sound of two rapidly retreating footsteps faded away, Mytho finally turned back to Fakir.

Taking off his hat, the white haired man knelt down beside his old friend and fished out a handkerchief from a pocket. Fakir jerked away sharply when Mytho dabbed the blood from his lips. Warily, Fakir looked up and the two men's eyes met.

"I'm sorry," Mytho said quietly as he folded the handkerchief and tucked it away, "this was not how I planned for us to meet again."

Fakir said nothing, but looked away, bitterness and anger displayed plainly on his face underneath the swollen cheek and bruises. "Never in a million years would _I_ have expected to be talking to you like this, either," Fakir said thickly, his mouth dry and voice hoarse.

"Yes," Mytho stood back up and sat down on a crate facing Fakir, "it has a long and winding path for me."

Resting his hands on either side of him, Mytho smiled a little, and Fakir was struck by that familiar, boyish look he'd seen so often many years ago. "You asked me the last time we met, how is it that I have become who I am today?" Mytho's smile widened, almost wistfully. "I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that story."

* * *

A/N

*An Italian proverb

*What Charon is proposing to Duck is to place her into witness protection. However the modern Witness Protection Program that we know wasn't established until 1970 so I'm going to be taking some artistic license with this down the road.

Sorry for the 4+ months wait. I had a bout of writer's block, and combined with a busy schedule it took me a while to get this out.

The part where Fakir gets roughed up was, to be honest, a scene I've had in my head since I first started planning this story. I hope that doesn't make me a sadist. :p

Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The chains around Fakir's hands rattled around as he tried to rest his back against the metal beam to which he was fettered. His knees were sore from being forced into a kneeling position for so long, but he stubbornly ignored the aches and kept his focus on the white haired capo before him.

Mytho reached into his coat with his left hand and took out one of his guns. To the side Autor let out an uneasy moan at the sight of the weapon. Mytho smiled at him. "I would have preferred to keep this conversation private, but I don't suppose I mind an audience. For now."

Turning back to Fakir, the pale haired mobster ran his fingers along the gun. "Do you remember, when you first started going to school, what it was that you taught me?"

Fakir frowned. The beating he'd received earlier had dazed him, and it took him a moment before he recollected. "You mean, when we were throwing stones at cans?"

Mytho nodded with a satisfied smile. "You wanted to make sure I could defend myself against anyone who might try to bully me when you weren't around. I remember after about a week of practice I started to get pretty good at it, but you insisted we hold a contest just to be sure I had it down."

Fakir remembered that, all right. They'd set up a row of eight cans on a fence and whoever hit the most won. Fakir managed to knock down six, but Mytho took down all eight on the first try. It was the first time the young dancer had beaten Fakir at anything, and at a skill Fakir had been proud of no less. Even now Fakir's ego still felt a tingle of indignation at this memory.

Pushing the recollection aside, Fakir asked, "But what does that have to do with—"

"With this?" Mytho held up the gun. He tucked the gun back into its holster and took out a long object wrapped in faded crimson silk. Fakir's eyes narrowed when Mytho unwrapped it to reveal a thin stiletto knife with a handle the shape of a metal raven.

Mytho turned the stiletto over in his hand, examining it. "After I came to New York, I studied at the Crown Dance Studio to learn ballet, just like I said I would. But the money Father Muller left me ran out after two years, and unable to find work to pay for my lessons, I was forced to leave the studio." He paused. "At that time, I met Rue, who offered me a job working for her father. You could say that it all started with the good aim you had instilled in me."

Mytho held up the knife up by the smooth metal handle, his fingers curving over it as though it was a dart. Aiming his hand straight at Fakir, he made a sharp flicking motion with his wrist.

_Thunk!_

The dart landed in the center of the impromptu dartboard, and the crowd inside the speakeasy burst into cheers. This particular speakeasy was in a noisy cellar hidden beneath a dried goods store. It was a cool Saturday night and there were roughly twenty people packed into the small room, a good two-thirds of them with cups of home-brewed bathtub gin in their hands.

Mytho stood at the center of this raucous crowd, which roared again when he threw a second dart into the board less than an inch away from where the previous dart had landed.

Mytho smiled shyly as the men patted him heartily on the back, their faces flushed from alcohol, his from the praise they showered upon him. As the boisterous crowd returned to their glasses, Mytho picked up the newsboy cap he'd left on the bar counter, now filled with coins and even a silver dollar or two. Tucking his earnings from the dart game into his pocket, Mytho wondered when the act of visiting a speakeasy had become such a normal activity for him.

When he had first started working for Rue's father, Mytho had been ill at ease with being involved in the illicit alcohol trade. As a distributor—Mytho could not quite bear to call himself a bootlegger—he had grown nervous every time he passed a police officer. But as the months went by and his internal guilt went unnoticed, Mytho became complacent and could now drive past a copper with a practiced smile on his face.

Alcohol also factored greatly into Mytho's life outside of work. While he was never particularly fond of drinking himself, his coworkers in the trade had a strong habit of visiting the neighborhood speakeasies after a hard day's work and would often persuade him to join them. Granted, none of the hole-in-the-wall bars these working class men frequented could compare with the posh, glamorous clubs that Rue preferred, of which he had already visited on a few occasion with her. Nonetheless, Mytho enjoyed the companionship of these men. Even though this was not the stage he'd longed for and had trained so hard for, he still felt genuine enjoyment in entertaining the crowd with a few games of darts.

While everyone else returned to the affair of getting inebriated, Mytho was preparing to leave when a hand from behind seized his shoulder.

Looking back, Mytho recognized the man immediately, gasping in surprise. "Mr. Taccola! What are you doing here?"

Taccola was a tall fellow wearing a sharp tan-colored coat, which Mytho estimated was worth the collective weekly wage of everyone else crammed inside the room. The man cast a distasteful look at the people crowded around him before saying tersely to Mytho, "There's a job for you."

Mytho looked at him with confusion. Taccola was, strictly speaking, his superior and the one who gave the actual orders for delivery; Mytho himself had few personal interactions with the man. It was rumored that he was close with the Don, which was hardly a surprise, given that Taccola was in charge of all deliveries in the city of New York. What puzzled Mytho was why the man had sought him out in person like this, outside of work hours.

Whatever the reason, Taccolo looked none too pleased about it as he quickly turned to leave and Mytho made haste to follow.

Once they were outside, and Mytho had checked that there was no one around to overhear them, he asked, "Is there something urgent that needs to be delivered?"

"In a way," Taccola said. "The Boss wants something delivered in Brooklyn tomorrow night, and he specifically said he wants you to come along."

"The Boss?" Mytho arched an eyebrow.

Taccola snorted. "Don Corvo, of course! Be at this location tomorrow at the time written," he said, holding out a folded note to Mytho. "And _make sure_ you come alone."

Still confused by this sudden request, Mytho asked, "You said he wanted _me_ for this task?"

Taccola shrugged. "Beats the hell outta me why, but those were his orders exactly. I don't know what he sees in a delivery boy like _you_, but a wise man doesn't question the Don's decisions." He eyed Mytho condescendingly. "Just be there on time, and don't screw up. I don't want to look bad in front of the Don because of you."

With that, Taccola walked away and turned a corner, disappearing into the night.

The idea that the Don had personally requested a specific task from him had preoccupied Mytho for the rest of the night. Rue was gone for the week, meeting with a director regarding a new movie, so Mytho was left lying in bed, alone with his thoughts.

Though he'd been going steady with Rue for two years now, Mytho had never once met the man who was both his employer and the father of his girlfriend. Rue had once told him that her father was watching out for Mytho in order to find a suitable position for him in the family's business, and Mytho couldn't deny the fact that he had risen steadily through the ranks of the Corvo shipping enterprise in the short time he'd been employed by them.

Nonetheless, the minimal—if not altogether nonexistent—interaction he'd had with Domenico Corvo made Mytho wonder if Rue's father entirely approved of their relationship. He was a no-name dancer who had grown up in a small town orphanage, while she was a budding actress on the verge of stardom. Up to this point, Mytho had all but convinced himself that his promotions were entirely due to Rue's efforts, and not from any genuine interest from her father himself.

Now though, with this strange new request from Don Corvo himself, Mytho wasn't so sure.

The next evening, Mytho headed for the location written on the note. After disembarking from the tram, he'd taken care to make sure no one had followed him and had wound his way through the waterfront until he arrived at a warehouse.

The adjacent street was empty and the only noise came from the boats on the river and rats rustling around in the dustbins. Mytho knocked on the door and was quickly admitted by a stranger.

Inside the warehouse Mytho saw Taccola standing next to a parked Studebaker, a rigid leather briefcase in his hand.* Mytho did not know Taccola well enough to read the man's expression accurately, but from the rapid tapping of his feet and the frown on his face, it seemed like Taccola was deeply anxious.

Besides Taccola and the man who had opened the door for him, there appeared to be no one else in the warehouse, which Mytho found to be very peculiar. Normally on one of Mytho's jobs, there would at least be a few other workers around to help out with the deliveries. There were other boxes lying here and there, but none of them looked as though they would fit inside the car, and neither of the men looked interested in the other crates.

"Is the merchandise in the car already?" Mytho asked.

"Not yet," Taccola said. "Give me your hand."

Surprised, Mytho hesitated.

"Hurry up, we ain't got all day!" Taccola barked.

Not sure where this was headed, Mytho tentatively held out his right arm.

Taccola stepped up to Mytho, and to the young man's shock, took out a pair of handcuffs and cuffed one end to his wrist.

"What are you doing?!" Mytho tried to jerk his hand away, but Taccola caught his wrist and motioned for the other man to help him clasp the other end of the handcuff to the handle of the briefcase.

Once Mytho was attached to the briefcase, Taccola moved away, leaving Mytho holding the container. It was only then that Mytho realized how heavy the briefcase was, pulling his arm down with its weight.

Turning sharply to Taccola, Mytho demanded, "What's this all about? What is in this briefcase?"

"_This_ is the merchandise, and it's your job to keep it safe. That's all you need to know. Oh, but one more thing."

Before Mytho could interrupt, Taccola reached into his coat and pressed something into Mytho's free hand.

It was a revolver.

Mytho's eyes widened as he gasped. He stared at the man who sat across from him. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"Insurance." The man looked away and snorted. "I just hope your aim is half as good with a gun as it is with darts."

The weight of the gun in Mytho's hand felt far heavier than the briefcase chained to his wrist as Taccola ushered him into the car. Wordlessly, they drove off into the night.

With the briefcase on his lap and the revolver tucked into his coat pocket, Mytho remained staring at the simple rectangular box in his possession as they passed by dimly lit streets, heading into the city.

As the minutes passed, the situation Mytho had found himself in morphed the nervous flutter in his stomach into a gut-wrenching dread. Transporting illegal alcohol was one thing, but carrying a deadly weapon was something far more serious. If Taccola had thought the job so dangerous that he would give Mytho a gun for "insurance"…

Mytho gazed down apprehensively again at the briefcase locked to his wrist.

Sitting beside Mytho, Taccola looked out the back window and suddenly let out an oath. He leaned in and muttered something Mytho couldn't make out to the driver. Wondering what was wrong, Mytho glanced behind him and saw a car some discreet distance behind them.

The driver of their car suddenly banked a sharp right turn at the next intersection, and the pursuers sped around the corner after them.

The driver then stepped on the gas and made another sharp turn to shake off the other vehicle, the car's tires screeching against the unevenly paved road before tearing down the empty street.

But the car behind them had a far more powerful motor, and rounded the corner a few seconds later, quickly gaining on them.

_BANG! BANG!_

Mytho ducked down as bullets whizzed past them from the pursuing vehicle, his free arm covering his head. Taccolo took out a gun from his coat and started firing back at their assailants through the passenger-side window.

_CRASH!_

A bullet hit the back window of the car, shattering it and showering the passengers with shards of glass. The car swerved sharply to the left and Mytho was tossed forward when their speeding vehicle struck something hard and came to a sudden halt.

Dazed, Mytho opened his eyes and as his hand came away from his head he saw a patch of something dark and wet splashed across his arm. As his vision refocused he realized what it was: blood. Was it his? Patting his head, he didn't feel any open wounds on himself…

He glanced up and in front of him, inches from his bloodied arm, the driver was slumped over the wheel, a gaping gory hole in the back of his head. Mytho had barely any time to take this in before Taccolo dragged the young man out of the car and pulled him into a nearby alley way.

"Who are these people, and why are they shooting at us?!" Mytho yelled, crouching in fear.

Taccola cursed, pulling out a handful of bullets from a pocket, his fingers fumbling around as he attempted to reload his gun. "They're after the dope! Word must've gotten out that there was going to be a delivery tonight!"

Mytho looked down at the briefcase chained to his wrist. Was that what he was carrying? Drugs? That explained why the briefcase was so heavy, and so dangerous.

A slap knocked Mytho out of his thoughts as Taccolla yelled, "What the hell are you doing?!" Down the street the sound of squealing tires became louder and louder. "Don't just stand there! Shoot 'em, you idiot!"

Clutching the case in his arms, Mytho could feel the weight of the revolver in his pocket, beckoning to him.

_No, this is wrong!_ Mytho's trembling gaze shifted to the car nearby, and he locked eyes with the now unseeing glazed eyes of the dead driver. _No, no—I don't want this!_

"_No_!"

With a scream, Mytho broke free of Taccolo's hand, running blindly into the dark backstreet of the docks.

Behind him, Taccolo cursed vehemently as he finished loading his own weapon and began shooting back. The cracks of gunfire layered over one another, and Mytho barely registered from behind him a gurgled cry from Taccolo as he dashed down the dark alley.

He felt as though his chest was going to explode from his heart pounding his blood through his veins, but Mytho kept running. Small creatures scurried to get out of his way, their movements startling the panicked young man, tripping and knocking him down onto his knees.

Mytho's head snapped up when he heard the ominous drone of a car motor coming his way. His hands fumbled to push himself back up, when his fingers came upon something cold and smooth.

Mytho glanced down and saw the gun Taccolo had given him resting on the ground in front of him, having fallen out of his pocket during the fall.

With no time to think, Mytho picked up the gun, and continued to run.

Holding the case under one arm, Mytho darted into a small side street just as the headlights of the pursuing vehicle pulled around the corner. Stumbling over himself in his haste, Mytho dodged between boxes and trash heaps, while the car behind him came to a stop, and unable to fit inside the narrow alley, angry voices followed him.

Knowing only that he needed to continue running, Mytho panted when after some fifty yards into the alley, a brick wall loomed in front of him.

Mytho collapsed onto his knees, his eyes wide with terror. Turning around and backing himself into a corner, he clutched the gun with shaking hands as two black silhouettes slowly approached him.

"He's still got the dope with him?" one of the faceless figures asked.

"Sure does. This will be easy pickings, heh!" The second figure laughed and Mytho heard the click of a gun being cocked.

_Am I going to die here?_

The face of the dead driver flashed across Mytho's mind.

_I don't want to die, no! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!_

Mytho's eyes burst open, and his mouth opened to scream. But his cry was eclipsed by the exploding bangs of gunfire, and the world went dark.

When Mytho next opened his eyes, he found himself gazing up at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room. The room was dim, but Mytho thought he could hear the din of the city beyond the ringing in his ears.

Craning his head to the side, Mytho saw that the walls of the room were lined by rows of bookshelves along with an unoccupied desk across from him; a single desk lamp on it provided the only source of illumination in the room. Mytho himself was lying on one of the twin couches, with a low table positioned between them.

His ears still ringing, Mytho rubbed his head and tried to get his bearings. He gingerly pushed himself up from the couch when the door clicked open and a raspy low voice said, "Ah, you're finally awake."

Mytho's head shot toward the voice, and he saw a short, stooped silhouette by the light from the hallway.

"Wh-who's there? What happened? Where…a-am I?" Mytho's unsteady voice asked.

The light vanished as the door closed noiselessly, returning the room to its previous gloomy state. The rhythmic thump of a cane on the carpet echoed in the room as the raspy voice said, "I had intended for the delivery to be a test for you, but it seems the rascals of the White Hand Gang caught wind of the delivery and threw a wrench into my plans."*

In the dim shadows, Mytho could see the figure approaching him. As he came into the light, the silhouette gradually took the form of an old man, his right hand gripping a cane, a hat shading his eyes. Combined with the matching black suit, he seemed to meld with the shadows in the room.

Mytho stroked his head, his skull still aching, and stuttered, "I-I don't understand…a test? For what?"

Mytho's right arm froze when he noticed the weight of the briefcase was absent. He held his hand up and saw that indeed, the briefcase and its handcuffs were gone.

Then, he realized he had been alone in the room until just now, and there was no sign of Taccola anywhere. He had remembered hearing Taccola scream, and Mytho shuddered to think of what could have happened to the man. However, he forced himself to ask, "Is Mr. Taccola alive? What happened to him?"

At that the old man scoffed, and instead he answered Mytho's first question. "I wanted to see whether you had the guts and nerves to handle high-stakes deliveries so that you could take over Taccola's position eventually. He was a competent man, but too proud for his own good, and lately he'd gotten it in his head that he'll be the one inheriting my place." He frowned, shaking his head. "Still, I would've preferred for him to retire in a less obtrusive way. We were fortunate that at least the case was not lost, thanks much in parts to you."

Mytho looked up to the stranger's face and was startled to find himself looking into a pair of penetrating red eyes. Despite the man's age, there was a cold, calculating edge in them that stood in stark contrast to the frail body the eyes inhabited.

Disturbed by what he saw in those eyes and not wanting to dwell on what he had experienced, Mytho looked away and stood unsteadily from his seat. "I'm sorry but I-I need to leave…"

"And where will you go?" the stranger asked pointedly. "You have the blood of two men on your hands now, you know."

At those words Mytho stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to face the elderly gentleman who took out an object wrapped in a handkerchief. He tossed it toward Mytho, who flinched and recoiled away. The object wrapped inside the handkerchief fell out, and a revolver hit the floor with a dull heavy clunk. The cylinder of the gun swung out, showing that all of the chambers were empty.

The old stranger made his way over to the couch opposite the one Mytho had laid on earlier and took a seat, hands perched on top of his cane. "When we found you in that alley, you had fainted, but this was still in your hand. It was a good thing my men found you before the cops did. There were two dead men in front of you, and six spent casings on the ground." Smirking, the old man chuckled at Mytho. "Not bad for one who had never handled a gun before."

For a long moment Mytho stared unblinkingly at the gun on the floor, his mind unable to comprehend what this stranger had told him. His memories of what had happened in the alley were hazy, but Mytho remembered the coldness of the gun against his palm and the fear he'd felt as the two men approached him, their silhouettes illuminated by a car's headlights.

"I…shot them?" Mytho whispered. He raised his hands and only then did he notice the specks of blood dotted over the front of his clothes. Gripping his shirt, his hands shaking, Mytho wailed, "Oh God…I-I shot them; I _killed_ them!"

The old man stood and walked up to Mytho, his cane tapping on the ground a measured, ruthless rhythm. "We live in a cruel world, Mytho. If you had not killed those men, they would've killed you. Compassion and kindness are foolish illusions. If you do not have the resolve to think and act for yourself, you will be trampled upon and worn down without mercy."

"But—!"

"'But how would I know?' you ask?" the old man said with a sneer. "Oh, I've been through it all, and trust me, _I_ would know."

The stranger took Mytho's elbow and guided him to the couch on which the old man had previously sat. Sitting beside the older man, Mytho gazed into his face and was startled by the deep burgundy eyes that peered back at him with an intensity that belied the man's age. The familiarity of those eyes slowly made the pieces fall into place, and Mytho realized who this old man was.

"You…you're Domenico Corvo, aren't you? You're Rue's father!"

Don Corvo smirked. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out." He stood up and slowly made his way to the desk. "I became interested in you after Rue recommended you to me, and I decided to do a little research on you of my own. You were born and raised in Nordlingen, a small town in Pennsylvania at a church orphanage, and came to the city a few years ago to study at a dance school."

The Don paused to unlock a hidden drawer by the desk and took out a bottle of amber-colored whiskey and two crystal tumblers. He opened the bottle and poured two shots of the liquor into the pair of glasses and made his way back to the couch.

"A man's story is important. It tells me where and with whom his loyalties lie. And as for you," he looked at Mytho and set a glass down before him, "you have few ties to your hometown, and besides Rue, you have no close friends here in the city." Don Corvo sat back down and gestured for Mytho to take the glass.

Mytho looked at the liquor hesitantly. Again, the Don seemed to read his mind and gestured to the glasses. "Drink; it will help calm your nerves. Wine is far more sophisticated, but at times like this some 'medicinal' whiskey will do the trick."* He himself took a sip of the amber liquid, and watched as Mytho picked up his own glass and took a tentative sip, then another one less hesitantly.

The warmth afforded by the alcohol gradually eased away the quivering in Mytho's limbs, and after half of his glass was gone, a strange calmness had returned to Mytho's mind and this was when Don Corvo spoke again.

Domenico Corvo twisted the ring on his finger, his eyes not focused on any particular object. "You remind me somewhat of myself when I was young, Mytho. Do you know why?"

"I…no, I don't," Mytho admitted.

The Don glanced at him with a distant expression before peering back down at the ring on his finger. "My mother died when I was young and my father was often absent. The world I lived in was a harsh and unyielding one: a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye. Unconditional love was but a fairy tale—in this world, you were truly on your own. To obtain love and respect, you must have the power and conviction to attain it. You must be ready to fight with tooth and claw to take what it is you want, as I have done all these years.

"With this philosophy, I have come far in the world. But, Time cares not for the achievements of any one man. After observing you these past few months, I have seen the same potential in you. You have what it takes on the inside to be my heir someday, if matured properly." Don Corvo turned toward Mytho. "With Taccola gone, I need another worthy man to work at my side, and you have the brains and the talent to do it."

The Don leaned in and whispered, "Your life has changed tonight, Mytho. Whatever you decide, I won't turn you into the police; snitching is the worst of sins in our line of business. But, you know that you can't go back to that innocent world under the light anymore. What you have done tonight will stay with you forever."

His finger hovered over Mytho's chest, gazing at the receptive young man, the Don's crimson eyes full of temptation. "If you join me, if you let me take you under my wing, you'll become the brightest star shining on our stage of darkness, and all others will bow down before you…"

In the basement where Fakir was held captive, Mytho paused in his recollections as the tip of the stiletto tapped softly against the wood of the crate he sat on. Somewhere above, the water from a leaky pipe dripped with clock-like regularity onto the damp floor.

Fakir was slumped against the beam behind him, his eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape as he stared at his old friend in bewilderment and disbelief. The gentle boy he'd known in childhood had _willingly_ turned into a murderer, a monster. How was this possible?

The words trickled from Fakir's mind to his tongue. His voice came out hoarse and dry. "But…that doesn't make any sense, Mytho," he whispered. "If you joined Domenico Corvo because of what happened to those men, I'm sure if you'd explained the situation to the police—"

"And what do you think they would have believed?" Mytho retorted. "I was the only one who came out of that alley alive that night, Fakir. All the evidence pointed to me. I would have been guilty of all charges. And, even if I had left Father's place that night without agreeing to join him…" His eyes narrowed darkly. "He was right. I would never forget what had happened. What _I_ had done."

"But, that…!" Fakir, even now incredulous at Mytho's admission, struggled to find his words. "That still doesn't explain why you decided to join him! If you were so repulsed by all this, why did you continue to associate with the Corvos? Not just that, to be his _heir?!_ All you're doing is making yourself into what you fear! What you hate!"

To Fakir's surprise, Mytho broke in sharply, "No, you're wrong!"

* * *

Grasping the telephone earpiece in one hand, Duck sat with trepidation, waiting for the connection she had requested to go through.

In her other hand she clenched the transmitter and the napkin tightly in her fingers. Each second felt like several hours. Duck glanced down at the napkin with the three rows of telephone numbers Rue had given her.

Duck had completely forgotten about them after Rue had given them to her at the opera gala, too shocked she was about the discovery that Rue was the daughter of Domenico Corvo. It wasn't until the captain had offered the napkin to her to dry her tears that she saw the numbers, and an idea arose in Duck's mind.

It was a gamble, a huge gamble; but with no clues on Fakir's whereabouts, it was a risk she would have to take.

Now, as she sat in Charon's office, the captain and another officer sat nearby, their eyes concentrated on her as they all anxiously waited for a response.

The first number she had dialed was Rue's home on Long Island, but the maid had informed her that Ms. Legnani wasn't home and she wasn't aware of her mistress's whereabouts or when she would return.

Crestfallen, Duck had gone down the list and asked for the operator to connect her to a number in Manhattan, which was supposed to be the residence of her father, Domenico Corvo.

Duck's hand was shaking as she held the brass receiver. She was calling the very people who were trying to kill her. Charon had questioned the wisdom of calling the Corvo residence itself but

Duck had been insistent. This was the only thing she could do to try to help locate Fakir. If Fakir was willing to put himself in harm's way to save her, she would do anything, everything in her own power to save him.

The ringing tone was suddenly cut off when a familiar but unmistakably irritable voice asked, "Who is this?"

Duck started, and she brought the transmitter closer to her lips. "Rue, it's me!"

On the other end of the line Rue's eyes widened and the receiver nearly slipped from her hand. She had anticipated the call to be from Mytho, and would never have expected Duck, of all people, to be calling her now.

From sheer instinct Rue pulled the receiver away from her head, and was about to hang up, when she heard Duck's desperately pleading voice.

"Rue, wait! Please don't hang up! _Please_!"

Hesitantly, Rue brought the receiver back to her ear. She glanced toward the door of her room, afraid that her omnipresent father would walk in at any moment. In a hushed, hurried voice, she asked, "Why are you calling me? Are you with the police right now? If you want to talk, send them away."

As Duck covered the transmitter, she looked up at Charon, who seemed to understand immediately. He motioned for the other police officer to exit the room before standing up to take leave himself. He paused beside Duck and said quietly, "You don't have to do this, Miss Stannus."

Duck only gazed up at him and smiled wanly. "I must."

Hearing this, Charon closed his eyes and sighed deeply before giving the young woman a brief nod and exiting the room.

Once the door had closed behind Charon, Duck removed her hand from the transmitter. "Okay, I'm alone now."

Rue took a deep breath, trying to collect herself and calm her nerves. "How did you know where to find me?"

"The telephone numbers you left me; I wasn't sure if I'd actually find you, but I'm glad I have."

Rue's brows drew together. Had Duck forgotten that Rue's own family had attempted to abduct her only hours ago? But the sincerity she heard in Duck's voice was genuine: as an actress Rue could tell.

To make sure Duck understood the position she was in, Rue asked, "Are you insane? What are you trying to do by calling the people who are trying to kill you?"

At such frank statements Duck paused. She gulped, and answered, "I know your family is out looking for me, but you're the only person who can help me, Rue."

"Help you? Why? Do you think I can somehow convince my father to leave you alone? Don't be foolish—"

"No!"

Rue was again surprised, this time by the passionate response from the simple, silly girl she'd thought Duck to be.

"No, it's…not for me, but for Fakir. _Please_, I'm the one you—no, your father—wants! Fakir has nothing to do with this. Please let him go!"

"And what makes you think I have any power over that?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"…"

At Rue's silence Duck saw a glimmer of hope and she pressed the other girl further. "Please, Rue, I'm _begging_ you. I-I'll do anything!"

On the other end of the telephone line, Rue sat in silence, her hand pensively at her lips as she listened to the other girl's entreaty.

Rue knew if she were to give away where the detective was likely being held, her family would disown her, or worse. Talking to anyone associated with the police was equated with snitching, the one greatest sin anyone in her world could commit.

If only Duck had never been a witness, then this whole mess could have been avoided. Because of her, Rue's relationship with her father was now precariously rocky and Mytho had become even more distant.

If only Duck could disappear…

Rue brought the receiver close to her mouth and walked to a window far from the door, where she was least likely to be overheard. "Anything, you say?"

After a split second of hesitation Duck nodded, answering firmly, "Yes. _Anything!_"

Rue took a deep breath. She knew that what she was about to say next could very well come at the cost of her father's love for her, precious and tenuous as it was; in order for her gambit to work, she would have to confess to her father that she had held Corvo dealings behind his back—again.

But powerlessness bred desperation, and it was with a desperate hope that her impudent action would ultimately bring calm back to her family that Rue answered Duck's plea, her red eyes darkening. "Fine, then. I'll tell you where the detective is. But, only under one condition…"

* * *

Mytho peered up at the ceiling lamp, its weak light barely reaching the young mobster's amber eyes.

"Fakir, answer me this," Mytho said finally, his eyes still gazing upwards, "do you know why I loved to dance so much?"

Still stunned from Mytho's outburst moments before, the sudden change in topic threw off Fakir. To him, Mytho's name and the word dance were synonymous, so for Mytho to ask this question was like asking why the grass was green or why clouds were white.

_Mytho must've told me the reason at one point_… Fakir wracked his memories for such an exchange, but none existed. Uncertainly, he answered, "Because…you love it."

Mytho looked back down from the lamp. "Yes, 'love'. From the beginning, I had always wondered why it was that my mother abandoned me. Was I not worthy of her love? Was there something about me that was undeserving of it?" He scowled, his eyes narrowing. "People think young children cannot comprehend feelings like guilt or rejection, but you and I know otherwise, because neither of us was foreign to these feelings when we were young, were we?"

Those words seemed to register something in Fakir, and he looked away, his eyes disquieted.

Mytho looked at him knowingly before continuing, "A few years before I first met you, the ballet school in town put on a recital. It was the highlight of the town's events; everyone attended, even the unwanted orphans at St. Vitus."

In Mytho's mind, a younger version of himself sat in the front row next to the stage, the other adults crowding around and behind. Before him, clad in satin toe shoes and sparkling costumes, the dancers moved in elegant form across the stage.

He'd watched with wide eyes, and when the music closed with a crescendo, the crowd around him burst out in applause and cheers. His young eyes were fixated on the smiling dancers, beaming as they took in the adulation of their audience.

"It was the most beautiful, amazing thing I'd ever seen. So then, I wondered: What would it be like to feel like that, to be adored by so many? If I could dance like the people on stage, then would I too, be loved by everyone?" Mytho closed his eyes, as if lost in the memory. "I wanted to find out if that was true, and from then on, all I could think of was how I could dance like them. I said to myself that one day, I will become a dancer, and for all those years I never shied away from that goal."

Eyes still closed, he smiled wistfully. "Once, when I was on the path towards that dream, there was a time when I truly felt that warmth, when someone truly cared for me, when I thought I truly belonged. During that time, what I'd always dreamed of had finally become real, and I could hold it with my own hands."

Then, his eyes opened, and they were hard and cold. "But after what happened that night, I knew I could never return to the stage under the light. If I continued to work for Father, did his bidding, then tainted though I am, I would be surrounded by people who would show me adoration and love."

Mytho held up his hands demonstratively, displaying the stiletto knife in his palm. "I've already stepped into the darkness; my hands are forever stained with the blood of those two men, and now many others. Even if I had returned to the world of light, I would have been turned away by that very world I had once lived in.

"There is promise for me in the darkness, Fakir," Mytho smiled, a smile of an innocent bright-eyed child. Seeing it sent shudders down Fakir's spine. "And with it, I could have anything I've ever wanted. Everything that I never before had."

Unable to contain himself, Fakir strained against his bonds as he spoke with desperation. "But, at what cost?! What you have now is built on the blood and tears of other people! Innocent families!" Fakir's teeth clenched, and his eyes became moist. "Mothers, and fathers, and children, Mytho! This _can't_ be what you want!"

A shadow flashed over Mytho's eyes, as though the words had struck a nerve. With a frigid edge in his voice, Mytho retorted, "How _would_ you know what I want, Fakir? You, who grew up surrounded by love, by a family who cared for you whether you pleased them or not, and whose mother and father died _protecting_ you—how could _you_ know how _I_ feel and what _I_ want?"

The sting from hearing such words from the man whose friendship he had so cherished made Fakir recoil with shock. His voice came out shaking, growing in conviction, "I…I can't believe it. I _won't_ believe it. Mytho, you were my best friend. I _knew_ you. You were a gentle soul. You don't belong here! This isn't who you are! You're not one of the Corvos, Mytho!" He took a breath and shouted, "You are _not_ a coldblooded murderer!"

Mytho's voice became deathly quiet.

"You don't know me anymore, Fakir. I am one of them now. And if you can't believe what I say…"

He deftly gripped the knife in his hand. "Then I'll simply have to show you."

Mytho raised the knife, his eyes icily still, and the narrow blade flashed in the dim light for a second before he drove it deeply into Fakir's shackled hand.

* * *

A/N:

Taccola is Italian for "jackdaw", a type of bird commonly found in Europe and is a member of the _corvus_ genus, the same genus that crows and ravens belong to.

* Probably better known for their 1950's bullet-nose cars, the Studebaker was a more discreet vehicle than say a flashy Lincoln or Chrysler. If you're a drug trafficker it's probably not a good idea to draw attention to yourself by hauling your goods around in an eye-catching car, no matter what era you're in.

* The White Hand Gang was an Irish gang in the Red Hook waterfront area of Brooklyn. Red Hook, which is on the Erie Canal, was one of the busiest freight ports in the world in the 1920s and the gang made a living extorting money from dockworkers and people living in the area. Supposedly the gang wasn't involved in smuggling, though it was said some members felt they should get into the business since it was profitable. Thus I can see some rogue members trying to ambush the Don's deliveries to get their hands on that drug money.

* Yes, the sale of alcohol during Prohibition was illegal, but it was legal up until 1933 to get alcohol, including whiskey, with a prescription at a licensed pharmacy. The supposed medical benefits of "medicinal liquor" varied, with some for example, claiming to treat rheumatism, while others had more "grounded" claims, such as for nervousness.

And as always, big thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for editing!


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

For a moment Fakir could not comprehend what had just happened, until a searing pain in his hand forced a scream out of him.

Mytho pulled the stiletto knife out, crimson rivulets running down the blade, dripping onto the concrete floor. Blood spilled from the gash in Fakir's right palm, staining the metal chain and his white shirt cuff as it crept down his wrist.

"M-Mytho, you…!" Fakir choked out. His eyes squinted shut. Breathing heavily, he gritted his teeth to keep from bursting out further.

"You didn't believe me before, Fakir," Mytho said with a quaver in his voice. "Do you believe me now? What I am, who I've become?"

Suddenly the door was flung open with a loud bang. Paul's panicked voice called out, "Boss, we have to go! We've been found! The cops are coming!"

Mytho turned away from Fakir and the capo asked urgently, "Has everything been moved out already?"

Paul nodded. "It's all done, boss."

"Good." Mytho swabbed the knife with his handkerchief and swiftly wrapped it back into its silk sleeve. "Have Frankie get the car. How much time do we have?"

Fakir listened to their exchange with difficulty, his mind jumbled by the assailing pain. Something warm pressed against the side of Fakir's face and when he managed to crack his eyes open, Mytho's hand was placed on his cheek.

"Now that our positions are clear, this is good bye, Fakir." Mytho tipped Fakir's chin up and looked into the detective's heavily lidded eyes with his own impassive ones. "At least, for now."

With those parting words Mytho's hand drew away, and Fakir's head sagged back down. He heard Mytho's footsteps as the capo ascended the creaky wooden stairs, followed by the distant slams of doors being shut.

Fakir wasn't sure how long it was before he heard noises again above the basement. When a great _BANG!_ came from the room above the stairs, Fakir raised his head with effort and opened his weary eyes a fraction. The door shuddered as people outside tried to break into the room, and after a second attempt, with another loud _BANG! _the wooden panel gave way .

A cascade of people rushed down the stairs into the room, voices spilling through, flashlights beaming, guns at the ready.

"Place two men at the door; make sure no one leaves this building!" Charon yelled, holding his pistol in one hand.

Then he looked at the detective. "Fakir?"

The captain put away his gun and knelt down before the fettered young man, while the other officers secured the room and attended to Autor. Gingerly, the older man placed a hand on Fakir's shoulder, and though Fakir's bleary vision could hardly see through the dim light, he easily caught the horrified look on Charon's face before the captain turned around sharply and shouted, "Wilson, call an ambulance! And find a bolt cutter, hurry!"

Turning back to Fakir, Charon said reassuringly, "Fakir, we'll get you out of here soon. You'll be alright, son."

Fakir nodded weakly. The rush of adrenaline that had helped him endure the pain was wearing off fast, and he was beginning to feel every excruciating throb of pain in his hand, as well as those of the injuries inflicted elsewhere on his body.

He was vaguely aware of someone cutting him loose and being carried up out of the basement, a rush of frigid air brushing against his skin. Muffled voices and shifting figures eventually gave way as he slipped into unconsciousness.

For how long his mind drifted in and out of awareness, Fakir could not say. He caught snatches of conversations, but none of them registered. The first sensation he could discern was the smell of chlorine and disinfectants. The scent brought back memories of a little boy in a hospital bed, his back burned raw and blistered from lye, his pillowcases soaked with tears as he wept in the night for parents who could no longer comfort him.

He pushed away at the recollection to keep from drowning in his nightmare of memories, towards the surface of his consciousness. Fakir forced open his heavy eyes and was greeted with what looked like an endless expanse of white.

Slowly, as his vision focused, he could make out the outlines of ceiling tiles above his head. Fakir turned his head a little to the side, and the expanse of the white hospital room was interrupted by a familiar figure with brunette hair and hands clutched together with worry.

"Ra…chel?"

Rachel let out a relieved breath, and smiled at her cousin. "Fakir, you're finally awake. Wait, let me get some water for you first." She rose from her seat beside his bed and disappeared behind the white curtains.

Fakir slowly turned his attention to his body, most of which was concealed beneath the white hospital sheets. His limbs felt leaden and his mind felt sluggish, and it took a great deal of effort to concentrate on anything._ How much morphine did the white coats give me?_ Fakir grimaced mentally.

Willing his muscles to respond, Fakir found he could shift around his torso and legs, but any motion in the fingers of his right hand sent painful twinges up his arm.

Rachel soon returned with a nurse and a tall glass of water in hand. The nurse helped Fakir adjust the bed so he could sit up. After making sure he was settled, the nurse informed them that she would let the doctor know the patient was awake, then took her leave.

Moving her chair closer to the edge of the bed, Rachel held the glass up for Fakir. When he tried lifting his right hand to take the glass from her, a sharp sting of pain shot up his arm, making Fakir wince and grit his teeth, dropping his hand back onto the bed.

Sighing softly, Rachel patiently held the cup up in front of Fakir, who stubbornly reached for the glass again with his shaky left hand this time. Even as Fakir successfully sipped the water, Rachel continued to hold the bottom of the cup, helping to steady it.

After the glass was emptied and set aside, Fakir asked, "What hospital is this?"

"Bellevue.* You've been here for two days. The doctors operated on your hand last night, and you've been asleep until just now. You also have some cuts and a few bruises, but nothing serious. You were very lucky," the singer said quietly, reaching up and touching his bandaged cheek.

Looking down at his right hand for the first time, Fakir saw that it was wrapped in bandages and held in a splint that gently curled his fingers inward.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Rachel was about to reply when a doctor and nurse appeared beside the cubicle curtains. The singer stood up, greeting the doctor, then to Fakir she said, "This is Dr. Edwards. He'll be able to tell you about it in more detail than I can."

After a brief introduction and a few questions about how he was feeling, the doctor and the nurse went about the routine of checking Fakir's vital signs. Once the doctor finished his notes, Fakir repeated his question, and the doctor answered, "The knife damaged the flexor tendons in your middle and forefinger; these are what allow the fingers to curve. It will take time to let those tendons, muscles, and other tissues heal, and you will likely experience some stiffness in those fingers even after the wound itself has closed."

"And how long will that take?"

"You'll have to have a splint on for a few weeks, and full recovery will take months. It's important that you don't aggravate the injury, lest scar tissues form."

That wasn't what Fakir had wanted to hear. With his mind dulled by the morphine and his recalcitrant body still feeling heavy and weak, Fakir could only respond with a despondent frown.

Noticing his expression, the doctor tried to sound optimistic. "Recovery will take a while, but with proper rest and therapy you should regain full function of your hand." Looking down at his clipboard, the doctor added, "We would like to keep you here for another day. In the meantime you need to rest; your body has taken quite a beating."

Seeing the dejection on Fakir's face, Rachel leaned forward and said to the doctor, "Dr. Edwards, would it be all right if Fakir stayed with me after he's discharged? The cold can't be good for his injuries, and there's central heating in my apartment.

"Also, it's almost the holidays…" Rachel paused, glancing at Fakir, "It would be nice to have you with us for Christmas. It's been so long since we were last together as a family for the holiday."

Hearing this, the doctor nodded approvingly, turning to Fakir. "That would be wonderful. It'd be best to have someone stay with you for a few days while you recover. There is a small chance that there are other injuries we're not aware of, and just in case something goes wrong, having someone nearby to bring you in would be a good idea."

Seeing Rachel's hopeful expression and goaded by the doctor's recommendation, Fakir grudgingly agreed. "Alright, then."

After making sure Fakir and Rachel had no further questions, the doctor and nurse departed. As the two of them left the room, Charon appeared at the door and Rachel got up to greet him.

"Good morning, Captain Sideros."

"Good morning to you as well, Mrs. Strauss," Charon said, doffing his hat. He walked up to Fakir's bed and asked, "How do you feel, Fakir?"

Fakir said nothing, but glared angrily at his useless right hand. Charon turned to Rachel and asked, "Would you mind if I have a minute with Fakir, Mrs. Strauss? I won't take long, I promise."

"Oh, yes, certainly." Rachel excused herself, and with one last look at the two men behind her, drew the curtain shut.

Charon eased himself into the chair beside the bed, hanging his hat on the back of the chair. Fakir turned his head to the older man, his rage at his invalid arm momentarily put aside as he asked with urgency, "What's happened to Duck? Is she all right? And that reporter…"

"Mr. Brahms is fine, though very shaken up. As for Miss Stannus…" here Charon paused. "She's…in the custody of the Marshals, and they have placed her in a safe location."

The uncharacteristic hesitation in Charon's tone bothered Fakir. He frowned and the captain seemed reluctant before he spoke again. "However, Miss Stannus—that is, Duck—will no longer be a witness in the Corvo case."

"What?" Fakir couldn't be sure what he was hearing, and wondered if his mind had been more muddled by the painkiller than he'd thought.

Charon's shoulders slumped as he took a breath and held Fakir's gaze. "She had made a deal with Rue Corvo. In exchange for the information of your whereabouts, Duck promised her that she would no longer serve as a witness to Alphonse's murder.

"When we were searching for you, Miss Stannus told us she knew someone who might be able to inform us of where you were. That someone turned out to be Rue Corvo, which was a surprise to me to say the least," the captain said, arching his brows as he remembered his initial astonishment. "I haven't any idea how she knew Rue Corvo or how she had gotten her contact information—Duck refused to say—but she was able to get in touch with Miss Corvo and work out a deal. Apparently Rue Corvo knew a few places where her father's men might've taken you, which allowed us to send out search parties." Charon folded his hands. "In return for that information, however, Duck promised Rue that she would, in essence, 'disappear forever'."

"Disappear…forever?" Fakir whispered, stunned.

"Yes. Meaning, she will leave the city with a new identity that the Marshals will provide for her, and she will never return to New York again," Charon said gravely.

Upon hearing his words, so many feelings welled up in Fakir: shock, anger, regret, sadness, and to his greatest surprise, loss.

Her existence to him had initially been no different than the bagged and cataloged inanimate objects in the precinct's archives—just another piece of evidence in the case he'd poured his entire life into building.

But somehow she'd worked under his skin. He'd come to be able to spot her fiery red mane out of a busy crowd of hundreds, to appreciate and even admire her for her quiet courage. Fakir remembered Duck's face as she yelled and glowered at him, scuttled away to work in her clumsy fashion after realizing she was late again, and most of all, her unguarded sincere smile.

Now, the life she had always known here in New York City would be forever forfeit. She would leave behind her home, everything and everyone she'd ever known, and give it up willingly—all for his sake.

"Idiot," Fakir muttered softly, closing his eyes as something made them sting.

Charon reached into his coat pocket and when Fakir opened his eyes again, he saw an envelope and a newspaper clipping in Charon's hand. Charon took out the letter and placed it alongside the clipping on Fakir's bed. "There's something else I need to tell you. The commissioner has promoted you to sergeant. I just got the letter an hour ago."

Fakir picked up the letter with his left hand. In it, the commissioner noted Fakir's work with the precinct and praised him for his bravery and dedication. The language was congratulatory yet impersonal.

It was when he reached the paragraph regarding his promotion that made Fakir sit up straight in his bed regardless of his body's discomfort, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"I'm being transferred out of Homicide?" Fakir asked incredulously.

Charon nodded. "Effectively when you return from your leave of absence, you will henceforth be working in Missing Persons."

He picked up the newspaper clipping and said grimly, "I actually found out about the transfer this morning when I read the morning news. The press has followed the attack on you and Duck very closely, and somehow they caught wind of the promotion before the letter reached my desk this morning."

Fakir put the letter down, his eyes dark. "The Corvos are behind this, aren't they?"

"Most likely," the captain said uneasily.

Leaning forward in the chair, Charon rested his elbows on his knees. "The city council has close ties with the mob, and it would not surprise me if the Corvos pressured the commissioner into transferring you to a different division. But, notice that there is not a single mention of their name in that article; they must have had to muster a lot of influence this time to keep their name out of the papers."

Charon's brows furrowed and he folded his hands together under his chin. "They may have been willing to let you go this time, but I'm certain they won't stand to have you in their way again."

Fakir closed his left hand around the commissioner's letter and crumbled it into a wad.

With a deep sigh, Charon unlaced his hands and stood up. Putting back on his hat, the captain turned toward Fakir again. "We will simply have to make the best out of a bad situation. You should get some rest, Fakir."

Charon paused with his hands on the curtain and said quietly, "Letting go is one of the hardest things to do in life, but sometimes it is all one can do to move on."

There was no response from Fakir except for turning his head away, tightly shutting his eyes. Charon drew aside the curtain and walked out of the hospital room.

When he opened the door Rachel was standing in the hallway, waiting for him.

"I want to thank you, Captain," the opera singer smiled sincerely at him, "for saving Fakir's life."

Charon shook his head modestly. "No, I can hardly take any credit for that."

"But you did. And not once, but twice," Rachel said quietly with conviction. "When he was a small child, you were the one who found him and realized that he was still alive. Had you not helped him get treatment in time, he might not have made it."

Surprised, Charon looked more fully at Rachel. "You remember me?"

She nodded. "I remember seeing you sitting beside Fakir's bedside when he was in the hospital back then."

Rachel briefly closed her violet eyes at the memory. She was a young girl then, and had run ahead from her parents to find her cousin's hospital room. Peeking into the hospital ward, she saw a younger Charon sitting beside a sleeping Fakir. The young officer looked up and smiled when he noticed the young girl peering at him from the door. Rachel had ducked out of the door shyly when her parents appeared and Charon stood up to meet them.

"You saved Fakir back then, and you took him under your wing after he entered the police force. I—our whole family—are indebted to you."

Charon exhaled softly, looking back into Fakir's room. "The murder of Fakir's parents was my first homicide case as a detective. That's something I will never forget." He placed his hand on his chin. "But, I never expected that little boy to show up many years later in my office as a novice police officer. I have tried to guide him as best as I can throughout these past few years, but…I can't help but think I have failed him somehow."

The captain pursed his lips ruefully. "Had I been able to solve his parents' murder back then, he wouldn't have become so fixated on the Corvos. From the very beginning, this case has only brought him pain, and there's nothing I can do as his superior or mentor to help him."

A light pressure on Charon's arm nudged the captain out of his reveries. He looked up to see Rachel's hand on his arm. "You've done everything you could, Captain. And if anyone's at fault, I share part of the blame too."

Rachel drew her hands together and gazed down at the ground. "I thought that Duck could help Fakir put his past behind him. They seemed so at ease around one another, and so trusting, so I told her about what had happened to Fakir's parents. But in doing so, though I hadn't realized it, I only added to Duck's burden."

"How did you know…?" Charon began, but Rachel answered before he could continue.

"I'm sorry, I overheard Duck's name as I was leaving, so I…I stayed and listened," Rachel confessed, her eyes flitting to Charon, and then back to the floor. "I hadn't known Duck was also involved in this case, and in such a sensitive manner too. If I had…"

The brunette singer exhaled deeply, "I know it's not my place to ask, but I must know: is she really all right?"

"Yes, don't worry; she is safe, that I can tell you for certain. But it won't be easy for her. She'll have to leave everything she's ever known behind and start a new, unfamiliar life."

Charon glanced out the hallway window at the trees outside as a strong breeze broke off and carried away the last stray leaf on one of the trees into the wind. Charon's eyes followed the leaf as it was lifted higher and farther away into the air until it was out of view. "'To disappear and never return'; that was the deal she had made."

* * *

Across the other side of the city, Duck laid on her hotel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling of her hotel room. The flutter of a bird's wings outside the window caught Duck's ears. Pushing herself up, she walked to the window and saw a pair of pigeons resting below the eave. She smiled at the birds and pressed her forehead against the glass, continuing to gaze up at them.

_I wonder how Fakir's doing…_ Duck's blue eyes wandered across the city from her fifth floor vantage point.

After his successful rescue, Duck had wanted to see Fakir, but Charon had strongly advised against it. With her identity now exposed, it would be highly unwise to go out in public. Just because Duck had agreed to remain silent, there was no guarantee that the Corvos wouldn't still try to silence her for good.

Not long after Charon had spoke with her, a group of men calling themselves US Marshals had taken her here to this hotel. Upon their arrival, they had placed a guard at her door and insisted that she not leave her room for any reason. Duck knew the security was for her safety's sake, but a prison formed by good intentions was still a prison.

Now, besides the clothes on her back and the few items she had in her purse, Duck had nothing else to call her own. Though the Marshals had promised her they would bring her a change of clothes, then arrange to move her and her belongings at home to a safe location permanently, she hadn't spoken with anyone in nearly a day.

Under normal circumstances Duck would've chaffed at all these restrictions placed upon her, but she knew that despite her frustration and boredom, this sacrifice was for a greater purpose. She had no regrets trading her freedom for Fakir's life. For someone who was willing to put his life on the line for her, Duck felt this was the least she could do to repay him.

Still, a part of her felt a deep pang of heartache. There would be no more whispered gossips behind the counter with Lillie and Pique, no more Mr. Kotin expounding at length about marriage, no more Miss Edel to greet every morning, and—Duck smiled wistfully—no more Fakir to banter with on the way to and from work every day.

A knock on the door startled Duck and she spun around from the window. "A letter for you, Miss Stannus," the officer standing guard outside said through the door.

Duck hurriedly went to open the door and was greeted by a second man, who held up a white envelope in his hand. "A person who called herself Miss Edel left this at the precinct today. She asked the officers there to give this to you, and so they've forwarded it to us," the man explained. "Do you know this person?"

"Miss Edel?" Duck's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! I do know her!"

Once the letter was handed to her, she immediately examined the envelope, which was addressed as only "To Duck".

Perplexed by the unexpected letter but overjoyed to receive something from someone dear to her, Duck thanked the agents, and closed the door. Once she had sat down on the bed, she carefully slit the envelope open with her thumb.

Expecting to find a greeting addressing her, Duck was again surprised when she saw instead the title of a story.

"_The Story-Collector's Daughter"_

_Once upon a time, there was a man who loved stories. He traveled far and wide, collecting many tales from the countless places he visited. The man had a beautiful daughter, who loved to dance and dreamt of becoming a dancer one day. _

_One day, the man was visiting an old friend and had brought his beautiful daughter with him. He asked his friend if there were any interesting stories to add to his collection. His friend replied, "There is an old woman in town who knows many things. Her name is Oma Eiche, and she has seen and heard many tales in her long life. But even more than the tales she knows already, she can foretell stories that have yet to occur. You can find her shop by the town wall, near a field with outcrops of stone that surround an ancient oak tree."_

_His interest piqued, the story-collector and his daughter sought out Oma Eiche at her shop. They were greeted at the door by Oma Eiche's wide-eyed helper, a little girl whom all the locals called Wachtel._

"_We're here to see Oma Eiche, little one," the man said to Wachtel._

"_Oh, Oma has visitors, zura!" the little girl exclaimed excitedly, and began tapping away on the toy drum strapped around her waist. She eagerly led them into the shop, where dried herbs sat in glass jars and an earthy scent permeated the dimly lit rafters._

_Oma Eiche was seated in front of a low table draped with a deep forest-green cloth. On the table were many colorful objects._

_From her seat, Oma Eiche welcomed the man and his daughter. "I had a feeling someone was going to come see me today. Tell me, sir, what can I do for you and your daughter?"_

"_A fortune, if you please," the man gestured to his daughter. "I hear you can foretell stories that have yet to happen, and I would like to ask you to tell my child's future."_

"_Very well," Oma Eiche answered and looked kindly at the girl. "Ask three questions dear, anything at all."_

_Wachtel watched with curious eyes from the edge of the table as the pretty young girl spoke shyly to the elderly woman, "Please, Oma, tell me these things: will I become a great dancer someday? Will I find true love? And, will he and I be happy together?"_

_Oma Eiche chuckled. "I will address them one at a time. The stones will tell me the answers."_

_She collected the various objects on the table, which included various brightly colored stones, a feather, and a silver spoon. She held them above the table for a moment, and allowed them to fall onto the table. _

_Peering down at the objects before her, Oma Eiche began, "For your first question, I see success in your future. If you work hard, I'm sure you shall become an accomplished dancer," she said, touching a polished white stone embedded with specks of gold in the middle of the table. At these words, the daughter's face lit up with joy, and she clasped her hands together in anticipation._

"_For your second question, I see that you will meet and fall in love with a young man of noble birth," she continued, pointing to a pink quartz stone that lay next to a small, silver spoon._

"_However," Oma Eiche touched the black porous rock hiding behind the spoon, "the stones tell me there will be strife and sorrow as well."_

_The brows of the story collector's daughter furrowed worriedly. "Does that mean we will not be happy together?"_

"_Not necessarily," Oma Eiche shook her head._

_The old woman smiled and everyone else's eyes followed her gaze onto the tawny tuft of duck down and a piece of clear crystal that sat at the head of the table. "By living, we experience sorrow, but also joy. I see a bright beacon of hope and joy; your future child, my dear, will always be a source of delight and contentment for you."_

"_But how does Oma know, zura?" Wachtel asked, cocking her head up to look inquisitively at her Oma._

_Oma Eiche pointed to the feather. "Like a duck, this child may appear silly, but there is great strength in her heart," she said as she pointed at the clear crystal. "She, too, will be able to overcome great obstacles."_

"_A duck-like girl, hmm?" The story-collector said thoughtfully, stroking his pointy beard. "That would indeed make for a remarkable story!"_

_Oma Eiche patted Wachtel's head gently. Smiling, she looked back up at the man's daughter. "A duck may be plain, but it has the strength to fly great distances to find lush pastures, year after year. There are few who are so small yet so resilient."_

Here the story abruptly ended, and Duck lowered the letter onto her lap, greatly perplexed by what she'd read. Why had Miss Edel sent this letter to her? And what happened to the story-collector's daughter? Did Oma Eiche's predictions come true?

_It will be all right…_

Duck blinked at the echo of her mother's last words. She looked back at the letter and reread the last paragraph aloud.

"A duck may be plain, but it has the strength to fly great distances to find lush pastures, year after year. There are few who are so small yet so resilient."

That's when Duck understood. "Could this story…be about me?" she whispered to the empty room.

She had always thought her grandfather had named her "Duck" due to his considerable eccentricity, and her mother had gone along with it to humor him. But now Duck reconsidered the reason.

Elsa had wanted her daughter to be duck-like, not for the creature's seemingly loud and silly demeanor, but for its fortitude and strength in the face of adversity. That thought made Duck smile as she gently hugged Edel's fairytale to her chest.

Even though she would be forced to sever all contact with her precious friends, Duck now had the knowledge that someone was thinking about her here, at the place she called home, and that her mother, though long gone, had also wanted her to be strong and look to the future, no matter what hardships might come her way.

Wiping away the little beads of tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes, Duck tucked the beloved letter carefully into her purse, adding it to her small collection of personal belongings that remained with her.

* * *

_BAM!_

The Don slammed his cane into the floor of the study, his bowed figure radiating a threatening aura of rage.

"Please, Daddy…" Rue pled meekly. "I-I _know_ Duck will keep her word! The Marshals have already moved her away from her home and will take her away from New York within the week! We'll be rid of her forever—!"

"SILENCE!"

The Don, breathing heavily through his nose, roared, "How_ dare_ you tell me what to think! I don't give a damn what you said to the witness! I am the Don of the Corvos, and _I'm_ the one who makes the decisions in this family, not a stupid girl like you!"

Before him, Rue could only cower as Don Corvo continued his tirade. "You have utterly disgraced me, Rue. To think I put so much time and attention into raising you right, only to have my _own daughter _betray me, making deals behind my back!"

His livid voice suddenly dropped to an ice cold whisper, sending shivers of pure terror up Rue's spine. "Don't think just because you are my flesh and blood I won't bury you with my own hands if I must. I will dispose of _anyone_ who gets in my way."

Rue blanched as a whimper escaped her throat. "N-no, Daddy! I-I'm so sorry! Please don't!"

The Don stormed towards Rue and the young woman took a few terrified steps away from her father. "If word gets out that I can't even keep my own daughter under control, what will the others think of me? Mark my words: I _will not_ have you meddle in my business any further! Just be thankful I might have some use for you yet."

The Don forcefully called for the butler, who obsequiously entered the room. "Take Rue back to her room and make sure she doesn't leave without my explicit permission. Remove her telephone as well."

The Don shot one last revolted glance at the quaking young woman. "Now get out of my sight, you ungrateful child!"

Shaking, Rue was helplessly led away from the room by the butler, as if she were a prisoner. Before the door closed, she cast her eyes back at Mytho, silently begging for his support. Mytho met her gaze, but turned his eyes away, his expression stony and inscrutable.

With a click, the door closed and the Don was left alone with Mytho. The Don hobbled back to his seat, and said in a low rumbling voice, "We need to find out where that witness is being moved. It will be too risky to get at her while she's still in the city. Our name has thankfully remained out of the papers, but we can't risk any more activity that will draw attention to ourselves."

Turning to Mytho, the Don said, "Unfortunately we don't have anyone at the federal level who can find out where that girl is going. We'll have to use that resource we have within the police to ferret out the details."

The Don gestured at Mytho with his cane, as if to direct him with it. "Send a telegram to 'our little friend'. We need to know where the witness is going, and when. This won't be an easy task at the present time, so mention that if this information can be obtained within a week, we will consider that debt owed to us as null; that should be sufficient incentive."

"What exactly do you plan to do with the witness, Father?"

The Don cocked an eyebrow at Mytho. "Kill her, of course. Why? Do you have other ideas, Mytho?"

The white clad capo paused, and then said cautiously, "I don't condone Rue's actions, but perhaps allowing the witness to relocate and disappear on her own will be better for us in the long run. Any hit attempt stands a risk of us being exposed, and as you yourself have said, Father, we can't risk any missteps before the conference."

"So you're taking Rue's side, are you?" the old man growled. "It seems like her foolishness has affected you as well! That, or else," Don Corvo narrowed his eyes, "you're starting to get soft. Why did you not finish off the detective like I had instructed you?"

Mytho's brows twitched, and he frowned. "I would have, but…the police arrived unexpectedly, so I wasn't able to finish the task."

"Hmph!" The Don grunted at Mytho's lukewarm response. "An excuse exists for every mishap, so it seems!"

He exhaled sharply, and then waved his hand at the capo dismissively. "Leave me; I need time to think so I can undo the messes both of you have caused."

Mytho nodded his head and left the Don to himself.

Wanting to calm himself, the patriarch summoned the butler for his favorite Brunello di Montalcino wine to be brought to him. While the butler went to fetch the bottle, the Don settled himself in his chair and set his cane against the side of it.

The Don did not like to doubt himself, but now he wondered whether having Mytho succeed him might have been a mistake. Mytho should've had plenty of time to kill the detective, and yet was only able to injure him. That show of hesitation worried the Don. As one being groomed for the title of his successor, Mytho had to be capable of doing anything, without reservation, to preserve the family's interests.

The Don's train of thought was interrupted by a light knock as the butler returned with the glass of wine, along with a crisply folded newspaper, on a tray. "Your wine, sir."

The butler set the glass down on the desk, then paused with his hand on the newspaper and asked deferentially, "Would you care to peruse the morning post, or shall I take it away?"

The Don thought for a moment. Finally, he nodded. "Might as well; it's best if I check to make sure those aggravating newsmen aren't saying anything they shouldn't be."

After the butler excused himself with a submissive bow, the Don laid the newspaper out on his desk. He skimmed the headlines, and soon enough found the article of interest.

"Bronx Detective Rescued. Criminals Still At Large."

Don Corvo glanced through the article, which gave a vague description of how the kidnapped officer was found and rescued, and then described in detail his injuries and the promotion. The article concluded with a short but flattering biography of the detective, peppered with typical media hyperbole.

"Officer Romeiras was born here in New York City, but spent much of his childhood in Nordlingen, Pennsylvania. Despite having lived away from New York for many years, he was deeply devoted to the city of his birth, and returned after obtaining his law degree to serve the New York law enforcement. As a promising young officer, his colleagues attest to his devotion to justice and wish him a speedy recovery, and will work speedily to apprehend those responsible for his ordeal."

Don Corvo saw nothing that greatly alarmed him, but for some inexplicable reason as he reached for his wine glass, he couldn't shake the feeling that something in the article nagged at him.

The Don took another sip of the Brunello and reread the article.

"Born in New York…childhood in Nordlingen, Pennsylvania…" The Don's dark brows drew together.

That strange Germanic name sounded oddly familiar. Though he might be advanced in age, the Don's memory was still remarkably sharp.

"Nordlingen...the same town Mytho was from, wasn't it?" he murmured to himself.

Cradling the wine glass in his hands, his eyes narrowed. _Maybe there's another reason Mytho didn't kill the copper _…

Domenico Corvo was not a man who believed in coincidences. Especially not when the future of the Corvo family was on the line. Perhaps it was time to take another look at Mytho's past. A much closer look.

With that in mind, Don Corvo put down his wine glass and reached for the phone.

* * *

A/N:

* Bellevue Hospital Center is the oldest public hospital in the US. I first learned about Bellevue through the book _The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York_. It detailed the work of Charles Norris, who was a leader in establishing the field of forensic toxicology. He was the chief medical examiner of New York City and operated a lab in Bellevue.

* "Oma Eiche" means "Grandma Oak", and "Watchel" means "Quail" in German. The method of fortunetelling Oma Eiche used is called lithomancy, which is divination using stones, though other objects that symbolize different things can also be used.

Many thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing. I also would like to wish the best of luck and a speedy recovery to those in New York and else where affected by Hurricane Sandy.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Mama? Papa?"

A little boy rubbed his sleepy eyes, sitting up from his bed. His bedroom was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight that crept through the crack in the curtains.

_THUMP! _The loud noise made the boy jump a little.

Then, he heard his papa's voice shouting in a mix of English and Portuguese.

_What's going on? _the boy thought, crawling out of bed. _Who is Papa yelling at this late?_ He tiptoed into the short hallway and headed for the family's small sitting room where he heard his father shouting from.

_WHUMP! _

The sounds of cracking wood and the stomping of feet startled the boy, stopping him in his tracks for a moment. Though gripped by fear, he forced himself to continue onward.

Peering warily into the living room, the boy could see the silhouettes of his parents, their backs illuminated by the lone kerosene lamp on the side table. His father stood firm with a baseball bat in hand in front of his mother, trying to shield her from the two strangers clad in black coats who had broken down their front door.

The shadows cast by the lamp hid the intruders' faces behind the brim of their hats, and each of the men carried something dark and long. Before the boy could make out what they were, his father raised the baseball bat and swung it at the men with a shout.

_BANG! _

The boy's mother screamed, but her cries were drowned out by two more thunderous blasts. As the child watched with wide, horrified eyes, his father doubled over and crumpled to the floor, making no further sound as he lay there unmoving.

The boy froze dead in the hallway entrance. Something thick and suffocating rose in his throat, and when he finally opened his mouth, he let forth an agonized scream.

"_PAPA!_"

His mother and the two men turned toward the boy. The intruders took a few steps into the room, aiming their weapons at him. His mother dove in front of the hallway, grabbed hold of the boy's arm, and dashed towards the door, deliberately throwing herself in the direct line between the men and her son.

Another deafening blast roared in the boy's ears and the lamp in the room fell to the ground, shattering. In its last flickering moments, all the boy could see were his mother's terrified blue eyes.

Fakir woke up gasping for air, tears trailing down his face. The haunting pair of azure eyes was gone, replaced with the gray tranquility of Rachel's guest bedroom.

His shirt damp with sweat, Fakir laid there in bed and covered his eyes with his arm, breathing heavily in and out though his nose. Gradually, the pounding in his chest subsided as the nightmare retreated into the realm of memories.

Sitting up gingerly, without thinking he tried to pull the sheets over his shoulders with his bandaged right hand, sending a twinge of pain up his arm, making him wince briefly. Fakir shivered a little from the chill air in the room, and turned his head toward the faint streetlight glowing from behind the curtains.

It had been years since he'd last had a dream about his parents' death. The dream was the same each time. His father was gunned down while trying to protect his family and his mother's eyes stared into Fakir's as she shielded him with her own body.

But something had been different this time. Even without any colors in the black and white photographs he had of his parents, Fakir would never forget his mother's green eyes, the same shade of emerald green as his own. Yet, the eyes he saw tonight were…

Clasping his knees to his chest, Fakir squinted his eyes shut. The reason he had become a police officer was to gain the ability to protect others. Despite all his efforts, though, _he_ was still the one being protected by others. Both his parents and Duck had sacrificed themselves for his sake. Whether he was a boy or a grown man, it made no difference: in the end, he was just as helpless.

Fakir clenched his left hand into a fist as his eyes reopened. The Corvos had already taken so much from him, and the longer he stood by and did nothing, the more powerful they would become.

They might have tried to get him out of their way, but Fakir was not ready to give up this fight. He had lost too much to quit now.

* * *

On the morning of December 24th, Rachel stepped into her apartment, her hands laden with last-minute groceries to prepare for Christmas Eve's supper.

Walking past the foyer, she was greeted by a miniature Christmas tree, draped with silver tinsel and multicolored glass ornaments shining softly in the clear morning light. The singer smiled at the sight of the cheerful little tree.

As she placed her purchases down on the wooden floor, a leather suitcase sitting across the room caught her eyes.

The sound of rapid footsteps from above drew Rachel's eyes up to Fakir who was descending the stairs, his coat in his arms. He paused when he spotted Rachel at the door, her smile replaced by a frown of confusion and heartbreak.

Fakir turned his face away as he reached the foot of the stairs. Without meeting his cousin's gaze, Fakir said, "I need to get back to work. My apartment is a lot closer to the precinct than here."

"Must you leave today?" Rachel asked, her thin brows wrinkling. "It's Christmas Eve; can't you stay for supper, at least?"

Fakir shrugged on his coat, his back to his cousin. "I'm sorry, Rachel, but I have to go."

"But, your hand—the wound hasn't healed completely, and…"

Fakir put on his hat, not answering her.

Rachel held her cousin's arm entreatingly. In a soft, pained voice, she said, "Fakir, please…don't push me away like this."

Lifting his gaze from the ground, Fakir placed his hand briefly over Rachel's before gently pushing her hand away. "I don't hate you, Rachel. But I don't want any more innocent people to get dragged into this nightmare."

With that, he picked up his suitcase and Rachel could only watch as Fakir closed the door behind him.

Fakir headed back to his apartment aboard a crowded streetcar. The tram creaked and groaned as its wheels rolled against the metal tracks. Though the passengers were crammed shoulder to shoulder, no one made eye contact, each person on his own isolated island of thought. In this crowded solitude, Fakir gazed silently upon the city outside, the rim of his hat hanging low over his eyes as increasingly familiar streets and landmarks came into view.

When the streetcar stopped at the station near Lake Avenue, Fakir disembarked, hailed by the bare sycamores lining the streets on either side, the frosty winter wind having stripped them of their remaining tattered leaves. Picking up his suitcase, Fakir walked towards the building he used to share with Duck.

When he reached Lake Avenue, the dark-haired detective was surprised by the sight of two men shuttling old tea chests and boxes out of the building and onto a truck parked beside the curb.

Far more concerned with balancing the teetering loads in their hands, they did not pay Fakir any mind as he walked past them up the stairs. Glancing into the boxes in the men's arms, Fakir could see bits of crockery and other household items nestled within the newsprint cushioning.

His eyes caught on the familiar etchings of painted pink peonies and rose buds on the side of a porcelain teacup. Recognizing it as Duck's, Fakir quickened his footsteps, and following the trail of movers, he arrived to find her door propped open.

Walking inside, Fakir looked around the dining area. Save for a tiny round table and a dish cabinet, its drawers having been pulled out and emptied, there was nothing else left in the room. Wandering into the kitchen, Fakir saw that it too had been cleared out, with only the sink and the small cast iron stove remaining in the now vacant room.

As Fakir stepped towards the bedroom, a voice called out, "Hey, what are you doing here? No one's allowed in here expect for the movers."

A young man with dull brown hair appeared from within the bedroom. As he was wearing a dress shirt and suit trousers, Fakir figured he was likely a foreman. But judging from the man's disgruntled expression, and the fact that he was wiping his flushed face with a damp handkerchief, this man was not used to manual labor and thus none too enthusiastic about this particular assignment.

"Fakir Romeiras. I'm a detective with the 53rd Precinct," Fakir said, showing the man his badge. "I live next door."

Hearing the detective's name, the young man's face lit up. "Oh, so it's you! My name's Roger, Roger Armadillan, from the 56th precinct." Hurriedly, he stuffed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, and then stuck out his arm for Fakir to shake while he prattled on. "I heard about you from the fellas in my department, and from the papers too, of course. Tough deal, what you went through. Boy, have you got some guts for standing up to those goons!"

The effusive praise made Fakir uncomfortable and he returned the handshake hesitantly. To mask his discomfort, he walked past the young officer to stand inside the bedroom. Like the rest of the abode, much of the cabinets and drawers had been emptied, with crumpled newsprints and straw littering the floor. The bed too had been stripped, and only the mattress remained on the metal frame.

"It looks like almost everything's been cleared out," Fakir said to himself, running his fingertips absently down the corner of the bare white headboard.

Thinking it was a question directed at him, Roger nodded. "Yessir! We only got started yesterday. Things have been a bit slow with only two movers, though personally, I think they're dragging their feet on purpose, since we'll have to pay them more to work on Christmas," he added with a little annoyance in his tone. "Still, from the looks of it, we'll get everything moved out by the end of today, in time for the witness to catch her train the day after tomorrow. I've been pitching in to speed up the pace, but it's amazing how much junk a girl can have. That's just how women are, I suppose," he shrugged flippantly. Fakir's unbandaged left hand clenched into a fist at the remark.

The detective watched the movers work as little by little the material items that had made this Duck's home disappeared into various unmarked boxes and containers. "Do you know where she's going?" he asked.

"Well, that's something I'm not privy to," Roger replied, scratching his cheek. "All I know is that the Marshals are taking care of everything after our work is done here."

Fakir said nothing. Seeing Duck's belongings being impersonally bundled away to be delivered to a remote, foreign place—just like Duck was—left an empty feeling in Fakir's chest.

Scanning the room absently, a small pale silhouette caught Fakir's eyes. Kneeling down in front of a box by his feet, Fakir drew a small surprised gasp when he spotted a photo of an elegant, white-clad ballerina.

From her long, slender legs, to her expressively outstretched arms, Fakir at first thought the dancer was Duck, transformed by some remarkable magic from the clumsy girl he knew into a prima ballerina. But when Fakir picked up the picture frame and examined it more closely, he noticed the signature at the bottom and realized that this was none other than Elsa, Duck's mother.

Looking back inside the box, Fakir's green eyes softened at another picture of that same mother with her daughter together. _The resemblance really is uncanny_, Fakir thought as he gazed at Duck, in the picture a young child, grinning at him from across time. Despite himself, the infectiously joyful sight of the smiling mother-daughter pair tugged at the corners of Fakir's lips.

Carefully setting the photos aside, Fakir reached into the box again and picked up a pair of well-worn toe shoes, which Fakir deduced must have belonged to Elsa. Hidden underneath them was a small jewelry box, which Fakir opened to find the gold-framed garnet pendant he had seen Duck wear on the night of the opera.

Something else about the pendant felt familiar, and when Fakir glanced back at the photo of Elsa and young Duck, he saw the same pendant peeking out from behind Elsa's shirt collar.

Roger had been looking over Fakir's shoulder, brimming with curiosity as to what the detective was doing. Finally unable to contain himself, the young officer piped in a question. "Er, is something wrong?"

Fakir blinked, then gently closed the jewelry box and placed the items back into the box. "Nothing." He stood up, turned toward Roger and placed the box in the arms of the brunet young man. "But, the things in this box are important to…"

Fakir paused, Duck's name catching in his throat. "…to the person they belong to. Make sure to have them delivered to her in person."

Roger looked down at the box of objects Fakir had just handed him, confused. "Uh, the photographs, sure. But how are a pair of old worn-out shoes worth holding onto?" he asked, shifting the box around in his arms as he followed Fakir out of Duck's apartment.

Fakir ignored him and began unlocking the door to his own apartment. As the detective went inside, behind him from the doorway, Roger said with a laugh, "Doesn't make for a very good Christmas present, if you ask me!"

Fakir paused. Fixing the jolly young officer with a cold glare, Fakir shut the door loudly in Roger's face.

* * *

Charon placed his pen down amid the paperwork that lay spread out across his desk. Leaning back into his chair, he stretched his sore back, throwing his arms into the air.

_Guess I'm not as young as I used to be_; _even just sitting in a chair all day is tiring_. He sighed wistfully as he massaged his shoulders.

Outside his office window, darkness had long since descended, and when Charon glanced at the clock, he saw it was already well past eight.

With Christmas just around the corner, the usually bustling precinct building had now gone quiet as the officers on duty had left for their rounds, while the others had gone home to their families for the holiday. In this rare window of stillness, Charon's thoughts turned to the case that had preoccupied him to this late hour, a case that had embroiled his entire precinct and turned the life of a young woman upside down.

Ever since Duck had haplessly witnessed the murder of a former Corvo gang member, Charon wondered how it was that the Corvos had uncovered Alphonse as an informant in the first place. There were a number of possibilities: Alphonse might've been careless and given himself away in a conversation, or he might've been overheard contacting the police. But with no actual leads, Charon had no idea of the cause that resulted in the man's death.

With the Corvos attempting to abduct Duck, however, Charon realized that there might have been something far more insidious at work. Fakir was far too scrupulous to accidentally give away information about the case, and Duck herself seemed well aware of the danger she faced.

Charon's instincts told him that there had likely been a breach of security within the precinct grounds. Up until this point, Fakir's abduction and its aftermath had prevented him from launching an investigation, along with handling the federal Marshals and all of the other day-to-day matters he was responsible for. Now, though, with a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts, Charon leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows against the armrests with his hands tucked under his chin, and pondered: how could someone access files stored in the precinct?

For starters, they would have had to get into the premise. There were two entrances to the building, and both sets of doors had deadbolt locks. But, all police personnel had keys allowing them to enter the building freely, so it would not have been difficult for someone with malicious intent to steal the keys from a single person and enter the premises unauthorized.

Once within the premises, all the files on Duck and the Corvo case were stored in a locked filing cabinet in Charon's office, which had a door with a spring latch that locked automatically when the door closed, as was Charon's habit whenever he stepped out of his office. In his pocket, Charon carried the only key to his office, making it nigh impossible for someone from the outside to get into his office without him knowing. However, multiple cabinets in the precinct shared the same locks, including the one with Duck's files, so someone with another cabinet key could possibly use it to get into that particular cabinet.

Taken together, the circumstances led to only one likely scenario, and the captain grimaced at its dark implications. Charon had always trusted the people who worked at his precinct, many of whom he had known for years. But now, he needed to consider the strong possibility that at least one of his subordinates was acting as a double agent for the Corvos.

There had been previous cases elsewhere of police officers convicted of working for criminal enterprises, passing information to them for monetary gain. However, the idea that one of his own officers might have been responsible for what had happened to Duck and Fakir—it was distressing for the veteran captain to even think of it, much less come up with a list of suspects.

Tired and frustrated, Charon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. For the time being, Charon decided unhappily, the best he could do was to raise the issue with Internal Affairs and handle the matter according to protocol. In the meanwhile, he would just have to stay vigilant and keep a close eye out for suspicious behavior from those around him.

Grasping his armrests, Charon stood up and gathered the scattered piles of paper on his desk. After arranging them neatly together, he placed the documents inside a large envelope, its front stamped with a red "CONFIDENTIAL" imprint, before locking the package in its corresponding filing cabinet.

His mind still preoccupied, Charon gathered up his belonging and pulled the door of his office shut before making his way through the quiet building and out onto the street.

A light snow had begun to fall, drifting like powdered sugar from the gray sky. Charon had barely walked down the block when a snowflake landed on his forehead, moistly tickling his skin. The captain reached up and touched his head, realizing only then that he'd forgotten his hat in his office. Silently chastising himself for his absentmindedness, Charon turned around and headed back for the precinct.

Deciding to take the back entrance, which was closer to his office, Charon paused several steps away from it to reach for his keys. When he looked back up, a petite figure stepped out from the doorway. In the dark, Charon had to squint to see who it was, but spotting her glasses and short hair, he recognized the person as their composite artist, Malen.

_Had Malen forgotten something?_ Charon wondered. He had seen her in the precinct earlier in the day, but her desk was empty when he left. He was about to greet her when Malen hurriedly locked the door behind her, appearing not to have noticed Charon, and dashed onto the streets, quickly disappearing around the corner.

Frowning over Malen's strange behavior, Charon's thoughts returned to the question he had been pondering earlier. Picking up his pace, the captain made straight for his office.

As he reached his office door, his foot kicked something that made a small "clack". Looking down, Charon saw a small pebble, about the size of a bean, on the floor beneath him. Unlocking the door, Charon stepped into his office and, walking past his hat, went to examine the filing cabinet. Nothing looked amiss from a glance, but wanting to be certain, Charon unlocked the drawer where he'd stored Duck's paperwork and pulled out the envelope.

When he opened the envelope and went through the papers, Charon's brows furrowed. The neatly order of the papers had been jumbled, with some of them looking like they had been hurriedly jammed back into the pile. The captain carefully took out each of the reshuffled sheets of paper and laid them out on his desk. As a pattern emerged, his heart sank.

Swiftly, he took out his telephone book from a drawer. Flipping to a page, Charon fingered a number and picked up the telephone earpiece. He started to dial, but then stopped.

_No…if I tell the Marshals without solid evidence, they may very well blow me off._ Charon grimaced with doubt, lowering the earpiece.

He looked back at the sheets of paper on his desk, thinking. _I have to find some proof first. Maybe there's something to be found on the papers themselves…_

Going back to the phone book, he flipped a few more pages and began to dial a different number.

* * *

Inside her bedroom, Rue lay curled up on top of her bed, her eyes closed. Even though it was Christmas Eve, there was no one for her to celebrate with, nor was there any good cheer in her father's house.

Rue had not been allowed to leave her room or communicate with anyone outside the mansion for days. The sparse human contact she'd had was only with the servants, who had delivered her dinner, yet which lay barely touched on the table by her window.

Even Mytho had not been by, and as Rue's heavy eyelids cracked opened a fraction, she wondered if this too was part of her father's retribution for her actions.

A knock on her door made Rue open her eyes fully. Sitting up from the bed and tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, the young actress heard the butler's muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"Master Corvo wants to see you, miss. He instructs you to be at his study within ten minutes."

Rue's heart sank. Her verdict was to be announced. Though the young woman had the urge to run and hide, she knew it would be impossible to escape from her fate. Instead, she smoothed the creases from her dress, and re-pinned her hair, then headed for the door.

The gnawing trepidation in her stomach grew as she exited her room and was led to her destination by the butler, who then abandoned her in front of the study doors.

Under the impression her father had wanted to speak to her alone, Rue was surprised to hear the Don's voice behind the doors, speaking in an oddly cheerful tone to someone. Perplexed, she stepped closer to the door and pressed her ear to the wood to listen.

"…it's unfortunate, but priorities change in life. The girl insists she has found her new calling. I agree, it seems a bit of a waste, and after all that time and effort—but young people are so capricious these days."

A pause. "What's that? Will she come back?" A strangely jovial laugh emitted from the room. "Ah, she's gone too far with it to return to her studio work at this point. The final decisions have been made, so to speak. Yes, I know, I know. That's the way these things go. Well, it has been a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. Zukor. Good-bye now."*

Rue's eyes widened as she realized her father had been speaking to her producer on the phone. But before she could think about it further, her father called out, "Come in, Rue." Snapping out of her stupor, Rue apprehensively opened the door and stepped into the study.

The Don glanced at her and said with a cold sneer, "You overheard that, didn't you?"

"What did you say to Mr. Zukor, Daddy?" Rue asked, dread of the implications of her father's words earlier overriding her fear.

"Since you've become so interested in the family's business, going so far as to speak to the witness on your own volition, I've decided that you shall devote yourself entirely to the family." The Don rose, and gazing into Rue's pale face, he continued, "As the first step in that process, I have cancelled all of your contracts. Odile Legnanni is no more; from now on, you are and will only be Rue of the Corvos. Do you understand?"

Rue crumpled into a chair as her father's words sank in. She had expected her father's retribution to be swift and painful, but with one phone call, he had undone everything she had worked so hard for the past six years.

Mytho had once taunted her that she was nothing without her father's name. She had refused to believe it, and had tried to prove herself capable on her own terms. But now, as she sat in the shadowy study it was clear—she did not control her own fate: her father did. He could pave a path for her just as easily he could make it crumble from beneath her feet. She was but a puppet that had chosen to ignore the strings linking her to her father's manipulative hands, and now she was paying the price.

The Don hobbled across the room, his cane tapping its way towards Rue. When he reached her, he cupped her face with his wrinkled hand and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. "I have taken away your acting career as your punishment for defying me, Rue. But you are of my flesh and blood, and as such, require a new purpose to support my goals. You will now become Mytho's perfect and obedient wife, completely devoted to him. As my daughter, your marriage will help him cement his claim as my heir."

Seeing the dejection on Rue's face, the Don said chidingly, "Don't look so sad, Rue. I have been most merciful in my punishment. You'll forever be with the one you love, will you not? You should think of this as my generous gift to you." Taking his hand away, Rue's gaze dipped back down and she stared listlessly at her cold, pale hands.

Turning away from her, Don Corvo made his way back to his desk and said, "Mytho and I will undertake a trip shortly, and I want you to accompany me."

Rue blinked, lifting her ashen face. "A trip? To where?"

"We will set out by train in two days. That's all you need to know. Stephens?"

At the sound of his master's call, the butler appeared by the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Find Mytho. I need to speak to him."

To Rue, the Don said tersely, "I have no more to say to you. You can leave now."

Rue made no response except to stand up wearily from her seat.

After the butler had let himself and Rue out of the room, the Don sat down at his desk. There, he unlocked a drawer, and within it was a mismatched stack of documents, consisting mostly of telegrams, along with a mix of photos, train schedules, and handwritten notes.

With his bony finger, the Don plucked out two telegrams and a handwritten note. One of the two telegrams had been delivered early that morning, sent from a small town in Pennsylvania, while the other had arrived only an hour previous from the Bronx. Settling down in his chair, the Don's thoughts turned to his protégée.

One of the main reasons he had chosen Mytho as his heir was the young man's lack of connections within the city and otherwise, which in the Don's mind also meant his loyalties would lie wholly with the family. Yet, whether by a series of coincidences or an arrangement by Fate, two individuals directly tied to this case were now revealed to have connections to Mytho's obscure past.

The telegram from Orecchie had confirmed the Don's suspicions that Mytho had a personal reason to spare the detective. However, Don Corvo had honestly not expected the witness to be the daughter of Mytho's old dance instructor, though that certainly explained why Mytho had advocated ending their pursuit of her. In either case, the Don was not about to allow Mytho's past to hinder the path of his chosen heir.

_If Mytho is going to succeed me, I must make certain that his loyalties are absolute._

With a glass of Brunello in hand, he had spent the past few days contemplating the problem, and at last, this evening he had come up with a satisfactory solution.

Some extra arrangements would have to be made, and bribes would invariably have to be paid, but the Don did not care about such trifles._ This will be his final—and greatest—test of loyalty_, he thought decisively.

A knock came from the door, and Mytho entered the room.

* * *

Grand Central Terminal was always crowded, but on the day after Christmas the platforms were like a giant beehive, abuzz with activity and traffic. From her seat on a bench alongside a small pile of crates, Duck idly watched the people walking past. A Marshal stood next to her, surveying the crowd attentively.

Absorbed in her observation of a group of fashionably dressed women who were busy flirting with some young soldiers, Duck looked up when she heard the Marshal say, "Ah, there they are."

A tall woman and a thickset man made their way towards Duck and the Marshal. The woman's curly brunette hair peeped out from under her wide brimmed hat. She was clutching a small cardboard box in one arm and waving at them with her free hand. Duck's guard returned the wave.

Duck stood up and the two parties approached one another. The relatively short redhead had to tilt her head upward to meet the gaze of the smiling woman as they shook hands.

"Sorry we arrived so late. How are you, Miss Stannus? My name is Hermia Bottoms, and this is Mr. Lysander," she said, gesturing at the stout, stern-faced man behind her. "We're Special Deputies with the Marshal Service. We'll be accompanying you on your trip to Detroit."

Duck smiled back. "Glad to meet you, Miss Bottoms and Mr. Lysander."

Lysander grunted at the greeting and turned away. Confused, Duck looked with uncertainty at Hermia and asked, "Um, did I do something to offend him?"

Hermia chuckled and cast a fond look at her partner. "Don't worry. He's just shy, that's all. Once you get to know him, he's really a very nice person."

_Kind of like Fakir_, Duck smiled in spite of herself.

"Also, I have something to give you," Hermia said, handing over the box she held to Duck. The red-haired young woman accepted the box, looking curiously at it.

Before she could open it, the train's whistle blew loudly, and Hermia looked up at the station clock. "Ah, we should get going—the train's departing soon. Have you got everything with you?"

After a quick check over and some fumbling with the luggage, Duck was led aboard the train by the pair of officers. Once inside their cabin, the two deputies helped Duck stow her luggage under the seat. As the train whistled a final time, with a jerk, it began to roll forward.

While they waited for the conductor to come check their tickets, Duck examined the box Hermia had given her. Setting it upon her knees, she unfolded the cardboard flaps, and brought a hand to her lips when she saw her mother's artifacts and the two photographs.

"Miss Bottoms, who gave these to you?" Duck asked as she turned toward Hermia, who had taken a seat next to her.

"They were delivered to the district office this morning with a note saying that a neighbor of yours wanted these to be given to you in person. The note didn't say who had made the request, though."

"Oh, I see," Duck smiled faintly. It had to have been Fakir.

She traced the edge of the frame housing the picture of her and her mother, touching each of the items in the box lovingly before stopping at a small necklace case. Picking up the jewelry case and opening it, the garnet jewel of the familiar necklace greeted Duck with a warm crimson gleam as it caught the morning light shining in through the train window.

"It's beautiful."

Duck looked up to see Hermia smiling at her.

"Ah, thank you," the young woman blushed. "It's not mine, though; it belonged to my mother. She left it to me when she passed away many years ago. It was very precious to her."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Hermia said sincerely. "Why don't you put it on? I think it would look wonderful on you."

Duck's brows furrowed. "But it belonged to Ma; it wouldn't be right for me to wear it," she said, her eyes shifting away.

Hermia shook her head. "I think she would love for you to wear it. It must contain many good memories if she treasured it so much."

"Ah, but—" Duck began to stammer, when to everyone's surprise, Lysander broke into the conversation with a gruff but gentle voice, "Hermia's right; it's a shame to hide such a beautiful thing away inside of a box." He bowed his head in embarrassment, blushing slightly.

Duck looked back down at the pendant, and after a final moment of hesitation, lifted the chain from the box, and with Hermia's help, fastened the clasp around her neck.

"It really does look wonderful on you," Hermia said, admiring the necklace on Duck.

Looking at her reflection in the cabin window while wearing the necklace, Duck thought she could see her mother's shadow gazing back at her.

Outside the window, the cityscape gave way to rows of trees and farmlands. As Duck watched the telegraph poles pass by, the train carried her farther and farther away from her longtime home, to which she would never return. Duck once again felt a deep pang of sadness, and her eyes became moist.

Reaching for the pendant at her neck and touching it gently, Duck reminded herself that she still had Miss Edel's letter and her mother's necklace with her, and these mementos would keep her company, even when her loved ones couldn't.

She would dearly miss all of her friends back home, and she still wished she could have gotten to see Fakir one more time, if only to thank him and wish him well before she left. But this was the fate she had chosen willingly, and for the sake of those very same people she cared about.

So, Duck smiled forlornly, sniffling and wiping away the little beads of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, and watched the scenery slip by as she was ferried into the distant unknown.

After a few hours had passed in silence, the train stopped at a small station just past Albany. The station had only one platform, and save for a lone vendor selling roasted chestnuts out of a basket, there was hardly any other soul present.

Seeing the vendor making his way towards them, Hermia turned to Duck, "Would you like to have some roasted chestnuts? It'd be nice for us to have something warm to eat."

"Sure," Duck answered, and Hermia opened the window to call out to the vendor.

Lysander stood up, and said in his low yet soft voice, "I'm going to the washroom. I'll be right back."

He opened the compartment door, but instead of walking out, he took an uneasy step backwards, for there was a gun pointed at his chest.

Hermia turned around and gasped. "Lysander!"

The female deputy tried to stand, her hand reaching for her purse, when the sound of another gun being cocked came from the window. A stunned Duck saw that the chestnut vendor, too, was pointing a revolver at Hermia.

"I don't want any trouble," said a man's calm, soothing voice, one that Duck recognized instantly, making her heart freeze in her chest.

The cabin door was pushed aside fully, revealing Mytho standing there, casting his eyes toward Duck with a disquietingly serene smile. "Please come with me, Miss Stannus, if you don't want these fine deputies to be hurt."

* * *

A/N

* Adolph Zukor, founder of Paramount Pictures.

Thanks once again to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing.


End file.
